Blood Donor
by Avnaihi
Summary: A vampyric Draco Malfoy attacks Harry Potter at Kings Cross station before the start of Sixth Year. Now, Harry must escape a deal made with his own personal demon while he prepares to face Voldemort once again...but is Draco truly an enemy? HP/DM
1. Chapter One

**BLOOD DONOR**

**Summary**: A vampyric Draco Malfoy attacks Harry Potter at Kings Cross before the start of Sixth Year. Now, Harry must escape a deal made with his own personal demon while he prepares to face Voldemort again…but is Draco truly an enemy? HP/DM

**Warnings:** Slash. Violence, angst. AU after Order of the Phoenix.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing but the plot.

**A/N: **This chapter has been edited on June 1, 2010.

* * *

Harry trudged towards Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, silently cursing the Dursleys. Following his return home after Sirius's death in the Department of Mysteries at the end of Fifth Year, Harry had become sullen, morose.

The Dursleys, of course, had felt his attitude was entirely unacceptable, and had spent the summer devising petty torments for Harry. He would walk downstairs for dinner, and find the Dursleys had already eaten, and had not saved him any food. Therefore, when the Dursleys deposited him at Kings Cross station three hours early and as far away from the Hogwarts Express as possible, Harry was not entirely surprised. Instead, he stowed his trunk and Hedwig's cage onto a trolley with a sigh, and began the long walk to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.

Feeling tired, Harry stopped walking, and glanced around the dingy station for a nearby clock. At least it was early still, only nine o'clock in the morning. He could still eat before the train came. Harry grinned slightly as he pulled a wad of bills from his pocket. The Dursleys thought he didn't have any money, but Hermione had exchanged some of his Galleons for Muggle money at the beginning of the summer.

Harry spotted a security guard leaning up against a pillar, and asked for the location of the nearest food stall. He received directions, which took him to a strangely empty portion of Kings Cross station. Harry shrugged, thinking he must have caught the crowd in a lull.

The dark figure standing in the shadows, carefully observing Harry's every move, went unnoticed.

Having finished a far more satisfying breakfast than anything he had received at the Dursleys that summer, Harry once again began the march to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, noticing he only had an hour and fifteen minutes to find the train. Of course, Harry's search for food had taken him far away from any landmark he recognized in the station. Harry sighed. _Sodding Dursleys._

He moved down a grimy corridor which pointed to the location of Platform Nine. There was no one else in sight.

Abruptly, someone shoved Harry through one of the doors lining the grey hallway. He landed ungracefully, but with his wand pointed at the door, a curse on his lips.

There was no one there.

Harry stood quickly, looking for his attacker. Before he had even finished a cursory survey of the abandoned office room he was in, a pair of rough hands slammed him up against the crumbling plaster wall, forcing Harry to drop his wand. In a split second blur of action, his attacker pinned Harry's hands on either side of his head, effectively preventing Harry from escaping.

It was only then Harry realized he was staring into the cool grey eyes of Draco Malfoy.

Malfoy smirked at Harry's obvious astonishment, before transferring his hold on Harry's left wrist, so that Malfoy was only using one of his hands to pin both of Harry's hands to the wall. Even then, Harry could not escape Malfoy's grip.

With his free arm, Malfoy pulled out his wand, and pointed it at Harry, who flinched, expecting a curse. Smirking, Malfoy instead flicked his wand at the office door. "_Colloportus!"_ sealed the door with a squelch. A coolly intoned "_Muffliato_," followed.

"Just making sure no one interferes," Malfoy informed a struggling Harry, who, despite repeated blows, could not break free.

"What the fuck do are you doing, Malfoy?" Harry said angrily, feeling bruises form on his wrists as he fought against Malfoy's hold,

"Still haven't figured it out yet, Potter?" Malfoy sneered derisively. "Can't say I'm surprised, of course. The Mudblood does seem to do all of your thinking for you."

"Don't call her that!" Harry bristled.

Malfoy smirked. "I think you have a bit more to worry about than an accurate description of that disgrace of a witch," he replied, shoving Harry against the wall to illustrate his point. Harry's head hit the wall with a sickening _crack_, and the world grayed at the edges of his vision.

Harry winced as the pain throbbed through his head, then, eyes flashing defiantly, glared at Malfoy. "What a good little attack dog you are, Malfoy. I'm sure Voldemort is very pleased," he spat.

Unexpectedly, Malfoy smiled at the barb. "I assure you, Potter, my business with you today is entirely my own." As Harry watched in horror, Malfoy's mocking expression transformed into a dangerous approximation of a smile, as the blonde boy's canine teeth elongated, and sharpened into needle-like points.

"Scared, Potter?" the vampire leaned down and whispered, his breath tickling Harry's neck. "You should be."

* * *

**A/N: **Reviews are loved and adored!


	2. Chapter Two

BLOOD DONOR

BLOOD DONOR

Summary: A vampyric Draco Malfoy attacks Harry Potter at Kings Cross before the start of Sixth Year. Now, Harry must escape a deal made with his own personal demon while he prepares to face Voldemort again…but is Draco truly an enemy? HP/DM

Warnings: Slash. Violence, angst. AU after Order of the Phoenix.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.

A/N: I actually wrote this chapter three months ago, read it again only yesterday, and thought, I must type this! In all seriousness, reading this again, it gave _me _chills. Anyway, thanks to all who reviewed, and on with the show!

llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll

Harry was trapped, and the knowledge he was trapped, entirely at Draco Malfoy's mercy, scared him more than the fact that Malfoy was a vampire. Malfoy had him pinned to the wall with a inhumane strength, which, Harry now knew, resulted from Malfoy actually being inhuman. Worse still, Malfoy had taken Harry's wand, and had warded the door, so Harry could not rely on a random passerby to save him, or sound the alarm. No one would be rescuing him soon.

Malfoy's breath still ghosted over Harry's neck. The vampire had not leaned away after he had last spoken. _"Scared, Potter?"_ The vampire's threat resonated in Harry's mind.

Harry longed to make a bold declaration to the negative, but a strong survival instinct, warning him he did not want to piss off this Draco Malfoy, prevented him from speaking. Harry's heart pounded frantically as he became more and more aware of the danger he was facing. Irrevocably, Harry knew that his relationship with Malfoy had changed. He and Malfoy were no longer equally matched school rivals, brawling over Quidditch games or petty insults. Instead, Malfoy was a predator, and Harry was his prey.

Minutes ticked by with agonizing slowness, and all Harry could do was stay very still, and try not to provoke Malfoy. When it became evident no reply was forthcoming from Harry, Malfoy leaned back slightly, smirking.

Suddenly, Malfoy began tightening his hold on Harry's wrists, until the other boy winced in pain.

"I must confess, Potter," Malfoy drawled, teeth glinting ominously, "I expected more of a struggle from you. Aren't you supposed to be the Dark Lord's final downfall?" he mocked.

Harry's green eyes glowed with anger. Screw not upsetting Malfoy. "So, has your father disowned you yet?" Harry taunted. "After all, you're not exactly a pureblood anymore."

Harry heard the bones in his wrist grind together, and screamed as an intense pain shot down his arm. His body contorted in an effort to break free from Malfoy, and stop the pain. At last, the hold on his wrist loosened slightly, and Harry collapsed back against the wall. He looked up, panting slightly, to see Malfoy glaring malevolently down at him, the vampire's grey eyes flashing dangerously.

"Watch your mouth, Potter," Malfoy commanded, displaying his fangs slightly, "Or I might decide to make this exceedingly painful for you."

Harry grinned lopsidedly. "Truth hurts, doesn't it, you bastard – " Malfoy's teeth pricked the flesh on Harry's neck in warning, and Harry immediately quieted, sensing danger.

Malfoy's fangs scrapped over Harry's neck. Despite Malfoy's closeness, Harry could not feel the other boy's heartbeat. Harry was hyper-aware of how helpless he was, with his arms still pinned on either side of his head, to prevent what Malfoy was about to do. The realization prompted Harry to struggle desperately, despite the obvious futility of his efforts to put some distance – any distance – between Malfoy's fangs and his neck.

Suddenly, without warning, Malfoy's fangs sunk deep into Harry's neck. The pain, the pain was like ten Cruciatus Curses simultaneously hitting his body. More disturbingly, Harry could feel his blood being sucked out of his body, and hear Malfoy swallowing his blood. Harry screamed wordlessly, his entire body in agony from the assault.

Finally, after what felt like years, but was probably only a few minutes, Malfoy pulled away. The vampire's mouth was smeared red with Harry's blood. Malfoy released Harry's arms, and stepped away. The combination of blood-loss and sheer pain made Harry collapse onto the floor in an inelegant sprawl.

Malfoy removed a handkerchief from his pocket, and aristocratically wiped his mouth clean of Harry's blood, pausing only to smooth out the wrinkles in his crisp white dress shirt. He undid the spells on the door, but paused with his hand on the doorknob. "I find myself in need of a permanent blood donor, Potter," Malfoy spoke conversationally. "If you should say a word about this to anyone, the Weasel and the Mudblood will take your place."

Harry glared up at Malfoy from his position on the floor of derelict office, wincing as he touched his bleeding neck lightly. His voice shook as he replied, "Just leave Ron and Hermione out of this, Malfoy."

"I thought you could be persuaded to see things my way," Malfoy smirked, retrieving Harry's wand from the corner of the room. He examined the wand closely as Harry held his breath, fearing that the vampire would snap it, before Malfoy casually threw the wand in Harry's general direction, where it clattered to the floor. Malfoy strode out of the office without a backwards glance, calling out over his shoulder, "By the way, Potter, its 10:30. Make certain you're not late for the train. I would hate to have to find another donor."

Malfoy's mocking laughter echoed in Harry's ears as the green-eyed boy cautiously stood, leaning heavily on the wall for support. _"Until next time?" _ Harry balked at the thought of experiencing _that _again, of being at Malfoy's mercy as the Slytherin's fangs sunk into his neck – of knowing Malfoy could easily kill him if he choose… Yet knowing, that if Harry did not comply, Hermione and Ron would suffer the consequences…

Harry sighed heavily, and the slight movement reopened the injuries along his neck, causing another wave of blood to soak into his shirt. Harry slowly gathered his trunk and Hedwig's cage, both of which were miraculously still present outside the office door. He began to walk down the corridor, but stopped after going 50 meters to duck into a men's lavatory.

It was only then, examining his image in the grimy under the florescent bathroom lights that Harry truly realized how much of a mess he was. Dried blood crusted the collar of his shirt, stemming from two puncture wounds in the middle of his neck. Finger-shaped bruises darted around both of his wrists like perverse bracelets, marking where Malfoy held him against the wall. Even the back of his head sported a steadily swelling lump.

Harry himself was swaying slightly, dizzy from blood-loss, and his reflection looked distinctly pale. Hermione and Ron could not see him like this, Harry thought, and turned on the faucet, using the water to wash away the worst of the blood. He pointed his wand at the blood around his neck. Harry could only hope the vast influx of wizards and witches at Kings Cross today would conceal his magical signature, but, regardless, he had to heal these wounds.

"_Tergeo,"_ Harry muttered, using his wand to siphon off the remaining blood on his neck and shirt. A quickly cast, "_Episkey,_" healed most of the bruises around his wrist, and closed the wounds on his neck. Unfortunately, Harry noted with a frown, while the puncture wounds themselves were gone, two spots, of a lighter coloration than the rest of his skin, remained. They were small, though, and Harry could always claim they were scars he received while at the Dursleys.

The healing had taken at least ten minutes, Harry estimated. He began walking as quickly as he could manage towards Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, fighting the dizzying effects of blood-loss.

Harry Potter's Sixth Year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry had begun. Sometimes, Harry really hated his life.

--


	3. Chapter Three

**BLOOD DONOR**

Summary: A vampyric Draco Malfoy attacks Harry Potter at Kings Cross before the start of Sixth Year. Now, Harry must escape a deal made with his own personal demon while he prepares to face Voldemort again…but is Draco truly an enemy? HP/DM

Warnings: Slash. Violence, angst. AU after Order of the Phoenix.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.

Favorite Review: _Zak's-blood13 – As a female, I'd probably let Malfoy drink my blood anyday. _

A/N: Sorry this chapter took awhile…college apps are brutal. Thanks to all my wonderful reviewers!

llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll

Harry Potter walked through the barrier to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters without experiencing any of the marvel or awe which had permeated his previous trips on the Hogwarts Express. Instead, images of crimson blood and malevolent vampires coiled around his thoughts, until Harry believed the panic would choke him…

The visions of blood and mind-numbing fear would not stop, and Harry berated himself for not being quick enough, smart enough, to stop Draco Malfoy before Harry was forced into making that deal…

A solid body slammed into him with a suddenness that brought Harry back an hour prior, to another attack, and he tensed, reaching for his wand before realizing he could not see through a thick wave of bushy brown hair. Harry smiled wanly. "Hello, Hermione."

Hermione Granger beamed up at him, and Harry realized with a start that he was at least a head taller than the diminutive Hermione, who was already talking nonstop about her holiday with her parents in France. "…and the Muggle influences in French magical architecture are _fascinating_…" Harry returned the hug, grinning, the memories of Malfoy's attack pushed to the back of his mind by the excitement of reuniting with his friends. Harry loosened Hermione's grasp as he spotted Ron's red-head bobbing through the crowd. Ron was at least half a foot taller than anyone in the immediate vicinity.

"Great to see you, mate," Ron greeted as he neared, freckled face grinning broadly. "Sorry Dumbledore wouldn't let you stay at the Burrow this summer, though," Ron frowned. Voldemort's attacks had escalated over the summer holiday, and Dumbledore had decided not to risk moving Harry unless it was absolutely necessary. Harry hadn't been in the best of moods over the summer, anyway.

"Mum was driving us all mad with talk about how the Muggles wouldn't feed you properly," Ron's face lightened in amusement as Mrs. Weasley bustled through the crowd.

"Harry, dear! You're looking too thin, again," Mrs. Weasley examined Harry with the critical eye of one who had raised seven children.

"Thank you for the care packages, Mrs. Weasley," Harry said gratefully, deciding not to mention they were near the only food he had received over the summer, courtesy of the Dursley's spite and Dudley's immense appetite.

Mrs. Weasley shook her head. "It was nothing, dear." She turned to Ron, who was listening to Hermione give a dissertation about influence of Arithmacy on French architecture. Ron looked bemused, and more than a little smitten. Harry grinned. He, along with everyone else in the school, knew Ron and Hermione would get together eventually. There was even a two-year pool going about when the oblivious pair would finally begin dating.

Harry barely noticed his surroundings, too busy laughing with his friends.

Then, Ron jostled Harry in the arm, pointing to somewhere in the crowd. "I was hoping the pointy-faced git would know well enough to stay away from school this year," Ron sneered, "What with his precious daddy on the run from Azkaban."

Harry paled considerably, pivoting slowly to look through the crowd. Standing imperiously in the center of the platform, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, was Draco Malfoy.

Malfoy, sensing Harry's gaze, smirked coolly at Harry, flashing his fangs when no one else was looking. Harry hastened to turn away, tugging Ron and Hermione to the train.

"We should find a compartment, its getting close to 11:00," Harry said quickly, still feeling the triumphant prickle of Malfoy's gaze on his neck. Harry chose to ignore the little voice saying he was not exhibiting very Gryffindor behavior at the moment. Maybe it was time for Harry to embrace his Slytherin side. The fact he had grasped his Slytherin side in a death grip was, Harry assured himself, of little consequence.

Ron and Hermione departed to fulfill their prefect duties, and Harry was left feeling increasingly vulnerable, especially given Malfoy's penchant for picking fights on the Hogwarts Express. To Harry's relief, he spotted Neville Longbottom and Luna Lovegood wandering aimlessly around the Hogwarts Express, and invited them into his compartment. He then secured the doors with the strongest warding spells he knew. Neville and Luna gave him strange looks, but thankfully did not comment.

The afternoon passed with relative ease, with Luna reading an upside down article in the Quibbler ("How to Track a Crumple-Horned Snorkack: Ten Easy Steps"), and Neville and Harry discussed Lucius Malfoy's escape from Azkaban. Apparently, the guard transporting Lucius Malfoy to Azkaban had been highly susceptible to bribery. Harry surreptitiously rubbed the puncture wound scars Draco had left on his neck every time Neville said "Malfoy."

A while later, Ron and Hermione arrived back at the compartment. Harry subtly renewed the wards after they had entered.

"I swear we those first years get more annoying every year," Ron grumbled, looking distinctly disheveled. Harry peered closer, and saw streaks of pink coloring Ron's hair. Hermione noticed Harry looking, and, sighing, leaned over Ron, and muttered a spell. All the traces of pink disappeared. Ron blushed, the tips of his ears turning red at Hermione's proximity. Hermione shot Ron a curious glance, and Harry grinned at Hermione's obliviousness. The smartest witch at Hogwarts, and she did not realize Ron's painfully obvious crush.

_Bang! Bang! _A loud hammering shook the door to their compartment. Harry turned to see Malfoy, surrounded by a menacing group of Slytherins, violently hexing the door.

"Why'd you ward the door, Potter?" Malfoy yelled. "Are you scared Dementors are going to attack the train again?" pausing, Malfoy smirked, "Or are you just scared?"

The group of Slytherins laughed hysterically. Harry felt himself growing increasingly angry – angry at Voldemort, angry at Malfoy. "Sod off, Malfoy!" Harry warned loudly.

Malfoy instead took out his wand and began spelling the wards away. "Fine," Harry muttered, standing up. Ron grabbed his wand and rose as well.

Harry dispelled the wards on the compartment, and quickly raised his wand. "_Langlock!"_ Harry yelled at Malfoy. Malfoy's vile diatribe ceased as the blonde boy began sputtering, unable to speak. .

"I am so sick of hearing your shite, Malfoy," Harry fumed, smirking as Malfoy glared at him. Seeing Malfoy incapacitated, the remaining Slytherins angrily took out their wands. Harry abruptly realized he did not have time to cast another spell before the Slytherins hexed him. Pansy Parkinson in particular seemed to have something particularly nasty planned.

Suddenly, from behind Harry, a loud chorus of voices yelled, "_Expelliarmus!" _Red beams of light shot over Harry's head, and hit the approaching Slytherins. The spell disarmed the Slytherins, and threw them backwards into the wall, where they laid still, stunned by the force of the spell.

Harry turned, and saw the other occupants of his compartment clustered behind him, wands out. Ron smiled at Harry's questioning look. "We thought you could use some help, mate." Harry nodded his thanks, and stepped back into the compartment.

As soon as they were safely inside, Hermione took out her wand. "We're going to get into so much trouble. Honestly, fighting before we even arrive at Hogwarts," Hermione glared at Harry, who backed away before Hermione's fury.

"Although," she continued thoughtfully, "I always have wanted to see Malfoy rendered speechless," Hermione grinned wickedly.

Ron ogled at Hermione's statement. "I think I love you," he professed, then promptly blushed.

"Don't be ridiculous, Ron," Hermione said coolly, although a smile pulled at her lips. Hermione turned to the door. "_Cave Inimicum_!" A jet of blue light traced the outline of the door, then disappeared. Hermione turned to see the other occupants of the compartment staring at her in amazement.

"Hermione," Neville whispered in a hushed voice, as though afraid to disturb something sacred, "That warding charm isn't even taught at NEWT level." Everyone again gazed at Hermione in astonishment, who blushed.

"I just didn't want Malfoy bothering us again," she defended.

The rest of the train ride passed in relative peace, although there was a brief moment of hilarity when the Slytherins regained consciousness, and began peering about the corridor, searching for Harry's compartment. Apparently, none of the Slytherins knew the counter-curse to Hermione's spell, so Harry's compartment was entertained by Malfoy performing a complex game of charades, all the while glaring heatedly at his Housemates.

Harry felt a brief tinge of fear about how Malfoy would revenge himself later, but ignored the thought to laugh with his friends at Malfoy's expense. Ron, in particular, was almost hysterical with laughter.

--

Draco Malfoy fumed with barely suppressed anger in the Slytherin common room. It had taken two hours before Potter's jinx had worn off, and afterwards, Draco could not even find Potter's compartment when he went to curse Potter to the brink of death.

"Potter is going to pay," Draco swore, his voice thrumming with anger as he strode to the Common Room door. Draco could feel his fangs beginning to lengthen in response to his fury

"You get him, Draco," Vincent Crabbe said coolly. Gregory Goyle nodded his agreement. The rest of Draco's House mates were giving the irate boy a wide berth, fearful of Draco's infamous temper.

Draco slammed the entrance to the Slytherin common room closed as he whirled out of the room, cloak flaring behind him. "Now," Draco murmured softly, the promise of danger coating his voice, "Where are you, Potter?" The vampire strode through the halls of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, tracking his prey through the mark he had placed on Potter's neck earlier that same day.

_Potter was going to pay_.

--


	4. Chapter Four

BLOOD DONOR

**BLOOD DONOR**

Summary: A vampyric Draco Malfoy attacks Harry Potter at Kings Cross before the start of Sixth Year. Now, Harry must escape a deal made with his own personal demon while he prepares to face Voldemort again…but is Draco truly an enemy? HP/DM

Warnings: Slash. Violence, angst. AU after Order of the Phoenix.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.

A/N: My all-time fav review this week was by _Playful Sylph_ : _Woah this is getting good!__Whats Malfoy going to do? Hm... so excited I cant wait to read more so_

_PRETTY PLZ UPDATE ASAP! _- Anyway, how could I say no to such awesome reviews?! You're wish, my command. Enjoy the new chapter!

llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll

Harry Potter waited until all the boys in his dormitory had fallen asleep. Once he heard the cacophony of snores – Neville's particularly loud snore being the most distinct – Harry quietly clambered out of his bed. He walked silently to his trunk resting at the foot of the four-poster bed, taking care not to disturb the others, and removed his Invisibility Cloak. The Cloak shimmered silver in the moonlight streaming like iridescent quicksilver through the windows.

Carefully, Harry crept down the spiral staircase leading to the Gryffindor Common Room, which was illuminated only by the dying red glow of the fireplace embers. Harry quickly confirmed that he had, indeed, remembered his wand, then deftly threw on the Invisibility Cloak, silently exiting through the portrait hole.

Hogwarts at night was worlds different than it appeared in the daylight, illuminated by bright sunlight and the meaningless chatter of students. At night, streaks of moonlight lit the corridors with a faint glow. The portraits, the suits of armor, even most of the ghosts slept restfully. Harry imagined that in the unusual quiet, he could sense the vast might of the castle, the product of thousands of years of magic contained in one place. At night, the castle was more than just stone; it was truly alive, permeated with a consciousness that was vaguely frightening in its scale.

Harry, his own progress marked only by the faint echo of his footsteps, often felt, wandering Hogwarts at night, that all of the other castle's occupants had disappeared. It was a disarming sensation, at once intensely desirable and fearfully lonely, to feel as though you had vanished entirely from the world.

In Fifth Year, after Sirius's death, there had been nothing more addictive to Harry than wandering invisible through the castle, feeling as though if he just stepped into a puddle of moonlight, he would be transported into a world free of Voldemort, free of the visions of endless death which haunted all of Harry's dreams…

Now, Harry would have sacrificed anything just to escape from Draco Malfoy…

Gradually, Harry's feet brought him to his destination. Harry stood in front of the great stone gargoyle which marked the entrance to Dumbledore's office. The gargoyle looked far more menacing and life-like at night. Harry tried frantically to think of Dumbledore's password, for the password represented far more than admittance into Dumbledore's presence, it symbolized freedom from Malfoy's deal.

When Malfoy had thought threatening Ron and Hermione would prevent Harry from escaping their hellish deal, he had gravely miscalculated. Harry was going to tell Dumbledore about Malfoy's vampirism, and then, Ron and Hermione would finally be safe. If only Harry could figure out the current password.

The stone gargoyle stared down expressionlessly at Harry as he whispered possible passwords in a low voice, not wanting to disturb the portraits whose soft snores filled the corridor.

"…Ice Mice, Jelly Slugs, Acid Pops, come on, open up!" Harry hissed in annoyance, glaring balefully at the statue.

It was as Harry paused, racking his brain for yet another mindless candy name, that he noticed the unsettling hush which had befallen the corridor. Whereas before, the creaking of armor and rustling of portraits had sighed like a dying wind through the corridor, now the only sound was Harry's own breathing.

Harry pulled his wand, positioning himself until his back faced a wall, ensuring no one could sneak up behind him. A cloth brushed softly against the floor somewhere down the corridor. Harry raised his wand in preparation to defend himself, when utter blackness engulphed the corridor.

The darkness was absolute. Eyes straining, Harry still could see nothing. However, he could hear steady footsteps approaching. The slow, calculated pace set off alarm bells ringing in Harry's head.

Whomever was approaching could not possibly see, for not even a _Lumos_ spell lit the darkness, yet they navigated the darkness flawlessly, without even a hint of alarm. This person, Harry instinctively knew, was dangerous.

However, Harry smiled to himself. The individual who had blackened the corridor had made a crucial mistake by not disarming Harry. As such, he still had his wand. Harry could not see, but he could still fight.

Harry took careful aim. _"Stupefy_!"

--

Draco Malfoy stalked down the corridors of Hogwarts, consumed by a burning desire for revenge. Harry Potter had dared to humiliate him, and Draco was going to make the Gryffindor pay dearly. No Malfoy suffered disgrace lightly.

Draco resembled a fallen angel in the pale moonlight, his hair and eyes glowing silver. It was a dark glamour, though, a dangerous illusion made evident when Draco suddenly smiled forebodingly, and the light glinting off his unusually sharp canine teeth promised pain.

Potter had finally emerged from the Gryffindor Tower.

The vampire began to track his prey, striding ever closer to where Potter lurked outside the safety of his dormitory. Draco found Potter so effectively through the puncture wound scars decorating the Gryffindor's neck.

Finally, Draco came upon a corridor where a familiar voice spoke in a low tone, "…Slugs, Acid Pops…" Draco's blood boiled at Potter's arrogance. For Potter to think a Sixth Year student could gain access to one of the most highly guarded offices in Wizarding Britain…Well, Draco would ensure Potter never entered Dumbledore's office tonight, anyway.

Even 200 meters away from his target, the alluring smell of Potter's blood made Draco's canine teeth lengthen, sharpen.

Draco removed his wand, and cast a powerful silencing charm upon all the portraits in the corridor, to guarantee no alarm would be raised. Next, he took out a handful of Peruvian Instant Darkness powder, and threw it into the air, feeling the tiny grains swirl into the air. Immediately, impenetrable darkness enveloped the corridor. Ahead of him, Potter's voice had silenced itself.

The darkness made it impossible for Draco to see, as well, but the vampire's heightened senses navigated Draco through the corridor as though lights blazed. Draco heard Potter scuffling around in the dark. Purposefully, Draco let the sounds of his steady approach fill the corridor with an ominous beat. If only he could see Potter now, trapped, unable to see, panicking as an unknown assailant coming ever closer.

"_Stupefy!"_ Potter's voice reverberated around the corridor, and a slight displacement of the air near Draco's head informed Draco of how narrowly he had avoided being hit by Potter's spell. Draco's limbs shook with rage.

"_Impedimenta!"_ Potter cast another spell. Draco could feel Potter's magic crackling through the air, almost like lightning in its intensity. Potter was admittedly powerful, but here, surrounded by an all-encompassing blackness, Draco had the advantage.

The vampire raised his wand. "_Incarcerous!,"_ Draco yelled. A loud thud, followed by the unmistakable sound of Potter's wand clattering to the floor signaled his spell's success. Muffled cursing filled the corridor. Draco smirked, striding over to where Potter lay bound on the floor.

"Hello Potter," Draco drawled.

"Fucking shite, _Malfoy,"_ Potter groaned, spitting Draco's surname like a curse.

"You have no idea how pissed I am at you Potter. Do not push me. _Levicorpus,"_ Draco coolly intoned, levitating Potter's body in the dark. Draco strode down the corridor, maliciously scraping Potter's head against the stone ceilings.

Shortly, Draco arrived at the abandoned classroom he had discovered earlier, its broken desks coated in a thick layer of dust. He countered the Levitation Charm on Potter while the Gryffindor still hovered two meters above the ground.

Potter hit the ground hard, his head cracking painfully against the stone floor. The Gryffindor immediately attempted free himself of his bonds. The tight ropes cut into Potter's skin. Draco sneered, "Don't bother, Potter. You won't be able to get out. Besides, we have a _deal_." Draco paused. "Unless you would rather trade your place with the Weasel or the Mudblood?"

Potter struggled harder against the ropes as Draco advanced, vampire teeth gleaming. Draco lifted Potter up, slamming the other boy against the wall, relishing the way Potter flinched as Draco leaned closer.

"Why the fuck are you doing this, Malfoy?" Potter glared, his face flushed with exertion.

Draco smiled menacingly, his blood lust mounting at Potter's proximity. "I choose you, Potter, because I needed a blood donor. And if I have to suffer through this, so do you. Consider this just revenge for getting my father thrown in Azkaban, and leaving me without a defense against the monsters the Dark Lord brought into my home." Potter paled considerably at the mention of the Dark Lord.

Draco flashed his fangs at the Gryffindor, enjoying the fear emanating from the other boy. "I told you last year I would make you pay, Potter," Draco whispered, his fangs scraping against the delicate skin on Potter's neck. The vein beneath the tan skin beat frantically, betraying Potter's terror.

"Dumbledore won't let you do this, Malfoy," Potter warned, still futilely trying to crane his neck away from Malfoy's fangs.

Draco laughed, and Potter stared at him in disbelief. "Unfortunately for you, Potter," Draco smirked, "I heard from a very reliable source that Dumbledore left earlier tonight on an extended trip." Potter's glare momentarily faltered, as he realized he would have to succumb with Draco's wishes for the continued safety of his friends.

"No…" Potter appealed.

Draco watched Potter glower at him, the Savior of the Wizarding World bound mercilessly, until Potter's expression became slightly hopeful. Draco smirked unkindly. "Too little, too late, Potter."

Draco plunged his fangs into Potter's neck, loving the way the coppery blood flowed over his tongue and down his threat. Potter was still struggling though, and Draco hit him once, hard, hearing Potter's breath expel painfully. Deliberately, Draco made the experience excruciatingly painful for Potter, digging his fangs deep into the other boy's neck.

Draco stopped feeding just before Potter lost consciousness, and dropped the Gryffindor unceremoniously on the stone floor.

"Thanks for the meal, Potter," Draco smirked, undoing Potter's bonds. The vampire spared not one glance for his rival, who lay brokenly bleeding on the floor, as he strode out the door.

llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll

**A/N: Please, if you liked the story, please, please, **_**please**_** review. Nothing motivates me to update more than all your delicious, lovely reviews!**


	5. Chapter Five

BLOOD DONOR

Summary: A vampyric Draco Malfoy attacks Harry Potter at Kings Cross before the start of Sixth Year. Now, Harry must escape a deal made with his own personal demon while he prepares to face Voldemort again…but is Draco truly an enemy? HP/DM

Warnings: Slash. Violence, angst. AU after Order of the Phoenix.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.

Favorite Review: _joeyluver-dragonofra_ – who said _SUCCESS BONDAGE!_ and wrote me, like, three reviews. You're amazing,_ joeyluver_.

A/N: Alright, this one took a while, but just look at how _long_ the chapter is!

llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll

Blood, mixed with gristle and severed flesh, congealed on the far wall. The pungent odor of blood choked the air, even as fresh screams emanated from the body positioned strangely on the table near the far wall. Harry strode over to the body, whose limbs were twisted, contorted into perverse approximations of their original shape.

The cloaked man standing over the body, knife in hand, stopped his bloody ministrations as Harry approached. _This was wrong_, Harry knew, even as his long, pale fingers wrapped leisurely around the proffered knife handle. Dried blood lay encrusted under Harry's fingernails.

Harry gazed down at the body, noting with satisfaction, even as a part of Harry tried to recoil in horror, the faint rise and fall of the still-screaming man's heart within the gaping wound of the victim' chest. The man's heart lay exposed in a pool of blood. It appeared as though a surgeon had expertly cut away the flesh and sawed open the rib cage, despite his patient's screams for mercy.

The man on the table was naked, but for a pair of ragged, blood-stained shorts. Blood and pus oozed from the numerous cuts along the man's body. As Harry ran his hands over the wounds, he realized with a start, and that deeply horrific sense of personal satisfaction, that the cuts formed a complicated runic symbol, which traced all over the man's body.

"You have done well, Macnair," Harry spoke, his sibilant voice almost hissing the words. "I knew your particular _talents_ would be well-suited for this work."

Macnair bowed low at Harry's praise. "I am always happy to serve you, my Lord."

_No, no, no, no! _Harry panicked, desperately trying to free himself. _He was trapped in another vision. _

_"Well, hello Harry." _Voldemort's voice resonated in Harry's head, even as Voldemort/Harry brought the knife's edge to rest on the man's still beating heart. _"Enjoying the show?"_

_Harry did not want to have to see this, did not want to see the man on the table die by Harry's own hand, he did not want this… _Once again, Harry lashed out with all the strength his mind possessed. Distantly, he heard Voldemort cry out in anger, but a bright light that filled his vision, burning with its intensity.

Harry opened his eyes.

--

Harry woke curled up on the floor in the same dusty classroom Malfoy had left him in, with his hands clutched tightly around his scar. Blood dripped steadily between Harry's fingers, running down his forehead, and into his eyes, bearing a sickening likeness to what had so horrified Harry in the vision.

That poor man… What the hell had Voldemort been trying to accomplish? It had looked like some sort of dark ritual…

He had to tell someone about Voldemort. Harry stood up quickly, and then clutched at a nearby desk as black dots obscured his vision. The world swayed dizzily, and Harry could not see, could only hold onto the desk like a lifeline as the world threatened to collapse. Finally, his vision returned, and the world stopped spinning. Harry released his hold on the desk, leaving bloody handprints which he hastily wiped away, and stood straight, panting heavily. He had lost far too much blood in the past twenty-four hours…

Harry spotted his wand resting on a nearby desk. He picked it up, feeling oddly grateful that Malfoy had not decided to take Harry's wand along with Harry's blood. The Invisibility Cloak lay crumpled in the corner near where Harry had woken. Harry Summoned the Cloak, and the slight exertion from casting the simple spell made the room spin again.

Only then did Harry notice the sunlight which had woken him. He cast a quick, _"Tempus."_ The glowing red numbers revealed he had only forty-five minutes before breakfast ended, and the first day of classes began. Harry stumbled for the door, still dizzy from blood-loss, only to stop, as he realized blood coated his neck and face.

--

Draco Malfoy sat in the Great Hall, eating breakfast. Drinking Potter's blood had done wonders for returning a feeling of normalcy to Draco. Now, he could eat increasing amounts of actual food, and the sunlight streaming through the windows proved only a mild annoyance, instead of an unbearable burning.

"You should eat more, Draco," Pansy Parkinson said concernedly, seeing only a lone piece of toast, and a glass of orange juice resting in front of one of her best friends.

Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle looked away from their own mountains of food to stare at Draco. "You really should, Draco," Vince echoed Pansy's words as Greg nodded in agreement.

Draco glared at Pansy, who smirked down at her omelet. "I'm only worried about your health, darling," Pansy started as her breakfast disappeared.

"In that case, _darling," _Draco said wickedly, "I'm only worried about your weight." Vince and Greg laughed raucously as Pansy glared with mock indignation.

"You know, Draco," Pansy began seriously. Vince and Greg began to edge away slowly, sensing danger. "I think you have something going there," Pansy gestured to Draco's glass of orange juice. "Weasley orange really is far more your appropriate hair color." With a flick of her wrist, Draco's hair turned a vibrant orange. Draco glared at Pansy, leveling his wand at the Slytherin girl.

"Fix it, Parkinson," Draco growled, fighting to keep his fangs from extending. Pansy paled slightly as some part of her brain subconsciously registered the danger. Draco's hair returned to its normal pale-blonde color.

"I swear, Draco, you have no sense of humor," Pansy sniffed haughtily.

Draco ignored her, seeing Harry Potter entered the Great Hall.

Potter looked terrible, Draco noted with approval. Potter's face was terribly pale, and dark circles decorated the areas under his abnormally dull green eyes. The Gryffindor's black hair was messier than normal. Even Potter's clothes were hideously crumbled.

"Potter looks awful," Pansy breathed. Evidently, Potter's friends, the Weasel and the Mudblood, felt the same way. Over at the Gryffindor table, they examined Potter with a thoroughness that bordered on sycophantic. Their attentions nauseated Draco.

Draco, though, continued to stare at the Gryffindor table. Potter had started speaking, in a low serious voice that even Draco's improved hearing could not distinguish from the cacophony of voices filling the Great Hall. The Weasel and the Mudblood looked grim. _Surely, Potter had not told them about Draco. If he had_ – Draco felt his teeth sharpen dangerously.

Greg tentatively poked Draco in the arm, disturbing Draco's graphic plans of bloody revenge.

"What is it, Greg?" Draco snapped.

"Mr. Goyle, I believe, was merely trying to tell you that your Head of House is waiting to give you your schedule, Mr. Malfoy," a silky voice stated from behind Draco, "seeing as though you yourself are being too obtuse to notice."

Draco winced. "Hello, Professor Snape."

"Good to see you, Draco. I trust you will pay more attention in Potion's class this morning?" Snape said, a hint of a warning infusing his tone.

Draco nodded. "Who do we have Potions with, sir?" Draco asked, already certain of the answer.

Snape glanced balefully across the room. "The Gryffindors, of course," he responded dryly.

--

"You say there were ruins all over the man's body?" Hermione asked anxiously, as they walked down the drafty halls to the Potions classroom. Harry nodded.

"That's not good, mate," Ron whispered. "A lot of powerful dark magic involves blood rituals."

Harry nodded wearily. "I know."

Hermione glanced at Harry's exhausted expression with concern. Harry pulled his collar up nervously, trying to conceal the bite marks on his neck, which had overnight turned a subtle silver color. Hopefully, Hermione would attribute his fatigue to the dream.

Harry shuddered as he remembered the crimson blood dripping down the stone walls, and the smell, a mixture of death, violence, and gore that was nearly worse than the blood.

"You should tell Dumbledore," Hermione counseled seriously.

"I tried," Harry admitted. And he had, before he arrived at breakfast. Harry could not trust Malfoy, could not believe the words the vampire had hissed in his ear before he had ripped his neck open were true. But a painting had informed Harry, even as he stood, trying once again to gain access to Dumbledore's office, that the Headmaster had departed late last night on an urgent trip.

Dumbledore's absence left Harry unaided to face disturbing visions from Voldemort, and a frightening deal made with a vampyric Draco Malfoy.

"What do you mean, Dumbledore's gone?" Ron whispered indignantly. "Hogwarts needs him here, right now –"Hermione's sharp jab stopped Ron's tirade. They had arrived at the entrance to Snape's classroom, where the rest of the students milled aimlessly.

Harry spotted Draco Malfoy's pale blonde head towards the back of the crowd, and glared with loathing. Malfoy, the arsehole, had just left him there, lying bleeding on the floor.

"Step aside," Snape's condescending voice rang through the dungeons. Harry, Hermione, and Ron hurried to move out Snape's path as the man strode to the classroom entrance, his black robes billowing ominously.

The class filed into the room quietly, Harry being certain to sit at a table with Ron and Hermione.

"I have no idea how some of you incompetents managed to scrape the Outstanding O.W.L. necessary for admittance to this course," Snape glared at Harry and Ron, "Rest assured, however, any mistakes will result in your immediate removal and expulsion from this class." Snape pitched his voice low, his tone menacing.

"As such, I have taken the liberty of pairing you with a partner for the rest of the year to prevent some of the more obvious screw-ups. No exceptions will be granted." Snape unfurled a list, smirking as the students glanced at their classmates in horror. Harry looked around the classroom, dreading the moment when Snape announced his partner.

"…Goyle, Granger…," Beside Harry, Hermione groaned. Ron patted her awkwardly on the back.

"…Weasley, Parkinson…" Pansy Parkinson glanced dismissively at Ron, who bemoaned his fate.

"Sorry, mate," Harry whispered. Ron waved his words off miserably.

"…Crabbe, Thomas…Potter, Malfoy…" Harry started, looking over to the Slytherin section of the classroom in dismay, to find Malfoy smirking at him unkindly.

Ron winced in sympathy. "Well, at least the git is good at Potions," Ron tried, and failed, to comfort Harry.

No one in the class had yet made a move to join their partner, too busy berating their pairing. Snape glared. "Well, what are you waiting for?" he snapped. "The instructions are on the board," Snape flicked his wand, the chalkboard covered itself in minute writing, "And the potion is due in at the end of class."

Malfoy made no move to join Harry, so Harry groaned, and gathered up his schoolbag. Harry sat down hard on the bench, burying his face in his hands.

"You look like hell, Potter."

"Sod off, Malfoy," Harry snapped defensively, lifting his head to glare at the other boy.

"You should have finished gathering your ingredients by now," Snape called out, circling the classroom, only to stop at Harry and Malfoy's empty table. "Really, Mr. Potter, you are an abject failure at Potions, but I will not allow you to bring Mr. Malfoy's grade down as well. Five points from Gryffindor."

Harry gaped at Snape as the rest of the Gryffindor's protested loudly. "That's not fair, Professor, Malfoy was antagonizing him," Hermione argued.

Snape glared at her. "Ms. Granger, regardless of whatever falsehoods you believe in that bushy oversized head, you are not the teacher here. Twenty points from Gryffindor." Hermione's face flushed red with embarrassment as Pansy Parkinson laughed shrilly. Beside Harry, Malfoy smirked with satisfaction.

Harry stood angrily, his hands clenched into fists, nails cutting into his palms with the effort of not rising to Snape's bait. _He just had to stay calm, relaxed, and wait for the buzz of anger to subside_. Behind him, Harry heard Malfoy laugh cruelly.

Harry spun around, and punched the blonde-haired Slytherin. A loud _crack, _and blood spurted from Malfoy's nose, staining his prissy white shirt crimson. Harry felt substantial satisfaction, being responsible for making Malfoy bleed, before Malfoy lunged at Harry, tackling him to the ground. Harry's head hit the ground hard, and he lashed out with his leg, kicking Malfoy squarely in the stomach. Malfoy drew back his arm to punch Harry, - "_Immobulus!"_

Snape's spell froze Harry before he could raise his arm to defend himself from the blow. All of Harry's breathe rushed out in a loud _huff _as Malfoy's fist rammed itself into Harry's stomach. Only then did Snape lazily utter another "_Immobulus_," freezing Malfoy in place, all wild eyes and snarled face.

"Fifty points from Gryffindor, Potter," Snape spoke, his voice silky, "for the outrageous use of muggle violence on a fellow student." Snape raised his wand. _"Finite Incantatum."_

Both Harry and Malfoy could move again, and used the opportunity to scramble for their wands. "_Expelliarmus!"_ Harry and Malfoy flew backwards, both divested of their wands. "Twenty-five points from both Gryffindor and Slytherin – yes Slytherin, too, Mr. Malfoy," Snape said in response to Malfoy's glare.

"You two will escort yourselves up to the Hospital Wing." Malfoy reached for his wand, but Snape tucked it away. "You will receive your wands back after you have been satisfactorily healed."

"Any fighting on the way to the Hospital Wing will result in detention with Filch every night until the Christmas holiday. Am I understood?" Snape glared, the rest of the class watching silently.

"Yes, sir," Harry muttered angrily.

"Mr. Malfoy?"

"I won't cause any fights, sir," Malfoy said finally, his promise steeped in Slytherin duplicity.

Harry strode angrily toward the door, determined not to suffer the walk to the Hospital Wing in Malfoy's presence. Suddenly, though, Malfoy strolled beside him, his pale face almost unrecognizable through the blood. "We need to discuss the terms of our agreement, Potter," Malfoy said in an expressionless tone as they neared the Hospital Wing.

"Fine," Harry spat.

"I'll meet you tomorrow night, at eleven, in the Charms classroom."

Madam Pomphrey hurried toward them, already exclaiming her displeasure.

"Fine," Harry glared once again, as Madam Pomphrey demanded that he sit, her voice shrill. At least they were meeting tomorrow, though. Harry needed the time to do some research, first.

--

Draco Malfoy paced inside the Charms classroom, waiting for Potter to arrive. Finally, the door opened quietly, and although no one's form slipped inside, Draco could hear Potter's footsteps on the stone floor.

"Take off the Cloak, Potter," Draco commanded.

Potter unceremoniously removed the Invisibility Cloak, glaring at Draco. Clearly, Potter was upset Draco knew his little secret.

"We have to work out a better deal, Malfoy," Potter demanded wearily. Looking closely, Draco saw that Potter's face was tinged grey with exhaustion. "I checked, Malfoy, in the library. You made me your blood donor." Potter gestured towards the two silver circles on his neck.

Draco cursed inwardly. He had hoped Potter would not realize the significance of the marks.

Potter continued slowly. "You need me for blood, to keep resembling a _human_," Potter stressed the word 'human,' as though to deliberately remind Draco of his newly acquired vampyric nature. "You can't go out into the sun without drinking enough of my blood, you can't eat normal food. I'm the only thing preventing everyone from finding out that you're a vampire. Better yet, unless I die, I'm the only blood donor you can have."

Draco winced. Potter's words carried a heavy threat, and Draco abruptly realized how vulnerable he had made himself, making Potter, his enemy, into his blood donor.

"What do you propose, then, Potter?" Draco asked dully. He waited with trepidation for Potter to say he would not agree anymore, was instead going to let Draco die of thirst.

Potter smirked, and Draco revised his previous assessment. No, Potter was too much of a Gryffindor to let him die. Instead, Potter was going to make Draco humiliate himself somehow.

Potter's words surprised Draco. "We're going to swear a Binding Pact, Malfoy."

"That's a nasty spell, Potter." Draco was vaguely impressed. Binding Pacts were lesser forms of the Unbreakable Vow. Instead of killing a person if they forsook the vow, Binding Pacts caused a steadily escalating pain, ultimately resulting in madness if the other person involved did not forgive the transgressor. Frankly, Draco was amazed Potter even found reference to Binding Pacts in the Hogwarts Library, as they were considered a form of the Imperious Curse, and had long ago been declared a Dark Art by the Ministry. Draco did not think a Gryffindor could have enough ruthlessness to even consider casting such a spell, and said so.

Potter smiled in reply, his vibrant green eyes glinting strangely. "You are going to swear you will not drink from anyone but me."

Draco glared fiercely at Potter, well aware that if Potter disappeared, or was somehow indisposed, he would not receive any blood.

"In return, I will swear to allow you to drink my blood once a week."

"And if that's not enough?" Draco growled, his fangs extending as he prowled angrily towards Potter. Vampires, especially young vampires, required blood at least twice a week. Draco, though, was a Malfoy, used to the most opulent comforts, and had been drinking blood four or five times per week.

"If that's not enough, than too bad," Potter sneered, "Unless you want Rita Skeeter to receive an anonymous tip that Draco Malfoy has turned into a vampire. But don't worry; I know the Ministry laws regarding non-humans are terribly lax."

Draco paled. If deprived of Potter's blood for too long, he would truly begin to resemble a story-book vampire. Maybe he could hide his condition from the Ministry now, but if he started avoiding sunlight, and not eating solid food, they would become highly suspicious. Since his father's escape from Azkaban, any wrong move would motivate the Ministry to lock Draco away in Azkaban without the key, simply because he was a Malfoy.

"Fine, Potter, I'll swear the Pact," Draco ground out through clenched teeth, horribly aware that Potter, a Gryffindor, had out-maneuvered him.

Potter nodded. "Give me your hand."

Draco placed his hand in Potter's, cheered when Potter flinched slightly.

"I, Harry James Potter, hereby formally enter into a Binding Pact with Draco Lucius Malfoy. I solemnly swear to allow him to drink the necessary amount of my blood once a week, provided he fulfills the terms of the Binding Pact," Potter intoned carefully. A silvery chain, made entirely of magic, wound around their entwined hands as Potter spoke.

One of the more useful aspects of the Binding Pact was that it did not require a binder, just the formal swears of the two entering into the Pact. As such, the Binding Pact used to be an important part of wizarding marriage vows, utilized to root out infidelity, and keep the blood lines clear. Now, only traditional pureblood families, like the Malfoys, still used Binding Pacts.

Potter was glaring at Draco to continue. "I, Draco Lucius Malfoy, hereby formally enter into a Binding Pact with Harry James Potter. I solemnly swear to not drink anyone else's blood but his, provided he fulfills the terms of the Binding Pact." Another silvery chain looped around their hands. Draco could feel the compulsion of the magic sinking into his skin.

"So mote it be!" Both Harry and Draco cried out at the same time, as the magic flared once, a bright silver which temporarily blinded both occupants of the room. Draco pulled his hand away, examining the back of his wrist to find a fading silver star. The star would blaze back to life with agonizing pain should Draco forsake his part of the Pact.

Draco's excursion into his own private Hell had begun.

llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll

A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed! Nothing makes me happier than opening my inbox and seeing all your darling reviews. To those who are waiting for the slash, remember, this is only Day 3 of the story. Give me another two chapters, and I promise, the slash will come. I PROMISE!


	6. Chapter Six

**BLOOD DONOR**

Summary: A vampyric Draco Malfoy attacks Harry Potter at Kings Cross before the start of Sixth Year. Now, Harry must escape a deal made with his own personal demon while he prepares to face Voldemort again…but is Draco truly an enemy? HP/DM

Warnings: Slash. Violence, angst. AU after Order of the Phoenix.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.

Favorite Review: _Inky74, who said she didn't normally like Draco!Vampire stories, but thought mine was 'brilliant' _Loved your review, _Inky74_!

A/N: You all are absolutely amazing! Fifteen reviews for one chapter…It made me oh so very happy. Thanks, all!

llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll

It felt as though he had ventured into hell.

Draco had never suffered this long without blood. It had been three days since he had made the Binding Pact with Potter, and he had last drunk Potter's blood two days beforehand. In total, that amounted to five days without a drop of blood, because the Binding Pact ensured he could not drink from anyone but Potter, anymore. Five endless, agonizing days.

Draco could not muster the energy to even attempt the schoolwork resting on top the derelict desk in front of him. Every breath rasped painfully against his sensitive throat, an inescapable fire burning his lungs.

"Mr. Malfoy?"

The world had tinted a dull, bloody red. Pansy, Vince, Greg, everyone had ceased to exist for Draco. He no longer looked around Hogwarts and saw people; instead, his friends, his classmates, all reduced to crimson networks of hearts and veins, walking systems of pumping blood which endlessly tempted. Draco looked at his friends, and saw a glorious relief to his pain. He looked at his friends, and saw food.

"Mr. Malfoy!"

Merlin, he was so thirsty.

"Mr. Malfoy, would you please pay attention?"

Draco looked up from the surface of the wooden desk to see Professor McGonagall's severe face staring down at him. His eyes immediately fixed on the vein in her neck, mesmerized by its slow pulse.

It took a great effort to free himself of the blood-induced trance. "I'm sorry, Professor, what was the question?" Each word scratched Draco's dry throat painfully.

McGonagall sighed heavily. "I was merely asking you to demonstrate today's lesson, Mr. Malfoy. However, I see that will be impossible." She glanced meaningfully at the frog perched on Draco's desk, which he was supposed to have transfigured into a pair of Potion's gloves. The frog croaked pitifully, and half of the class, the Gryffindor portion, laughed unkindly. Draco did not notice. He was trying to ignore McGonagall's proximity, struggling to disregard the enticingly steady rhythm of her heartbeat.

"I didn't do the assignment, Professor," Draco muttered finally, each syllable a struggle to pronounce through the red haze obscuring all his rational thoughts.

"I can see that, Mr. Malfoy," McGonagall's terse voice stated coolly. "Five points from Slytherin for your lack of preparation." The Gryffindor's cheered; obviously feeling slightly vindicated for the massive amounts of points Snape had deducted four days prior from Gryffindor. Draco barely noticed, though the Slytherins around him glowered darkly, whispering plans of revenge. McGonagall strode to the front of the class amidst the disturbance. "Failure to do the work in this class will result in significantly lowered grades. You should all…"

Draco did not hear the rest of McGonagall's lecture, too attuned to the siren call of the blood all around him…

--

Harry stared across the Transfiguration class at Malfoy, who was gazing listlessly at his desk.

"That was bloody brilliant," Ron whispered to Harry in evident admiration, leaning across the divide between their desks once he had assured that McGonagall's attention was focused elsewhere. Ron had been incredibly upset following Snape's removal of what totaled over 150 points from Gryffindor after Harry's fistfight with Malfoy. It had not stopped Ron, however, from accounting his favorite memories of the fight, namely, when Harry broke Malfoy's nose, in violent detail that same night.

"I don't know, Ron," Hermione responded thoughtfully, furrowing her brow as she craned her neck to look at the Slytherin in question. "Malfoy seems almost ill. Don't you think so, Harry?"

Harry nodded slowly, trying to ignore the twinge of guilt clamoring that Malfoy's poor condition was his fault, as result of the Binding Pact he had forced Malfoy into. "Hermione's right. Malfoy looks really unhealthy."

Ron sputtered with indignation, clearly having expected Harry to support his side. "But, Harry…It's the least that git deserves for all the shite he's put us through…" Hermione frantically tried to catch Ron's attention, but the red-haired boy noticed nothing until Professor McGonagall loomed over him. Hermione sighed heavily.

"Err…hello, Professor," Ron grinned weakly.

"I will not tolerate that type of language in my classroom, Mr. Weasley. Now, let's see your transfiguration." Ron stared at McGonagall in horror, as Dean and Seamus, sitting behind him, tried to stifle their laughter. Ron had spent the previous evening playing Gobstones for a five Galleon, eleven Sickle pool, as Hermione urged him to study. McGonagall gazed imperiously down her nose at Ron. "Well, go on, Mr. Weasley, we haven't all day."

Ron raised his wand slowly, gazing anxiously around the classroom for help, instead meeting only gleeful stares. "Err…" Ron pushed up his sleeves, and closed his eyes, mouth moving as though praying for divine assistance. Finally, he shrugged hopelessly, and poked the frog with his wand, hastily muttering a garbled spell. A flash of bright blue light, and the frog disappeared. In its place rested a three fingered glove, with two bulbous yellow eyes resting on the first finger. _Ribbit – _a red tongue darted out of the glove.

The class erupted into laughter. Harry swore he saw McGonagall's lips twitch slightly, before she said, "Perhaps more study time is necessary, Mr. Weasley?"

Ron nodded unenthusiastically, the tips of his ears flushed red. The bell rang loudly. McGonagall turned to face the rest of the class. "I want two rolls of parchment on how exactly your spell went wrong, due in for next class."

Sensing the dismissal, the class exploded into a flurry of motion. A mass exodus for the door began, composed of a crowd of cheerfully talking students rushing for their next class. As he packed his quill and ink away, out of the corner of his eye Harry noticed Malfoy had remained seated, despite the clamor. Harry paused in his movements, subtly examining Malfoy for the first time.

The Slytherin boy sat in the darkest corner of the classroom, his hands clenched into fists under the desk. Malfoy, always pale, now had an almost ghostly pallor, and his normally mercurial eyes were dull, unseeing. Once again, Harry felt inexplicably accountable, but shoved the thought aside. Whatever was wrong with Malfoy, had nothing to do with him.

And if it did, Harry should not care, anyway.

--

"Draco, class is over," Pansy leaned over Draco concernedly, touching his shoulder gently. Draco jerked back with a hiss, startled at the unexpected heat of her skin, an almost unbearable temptation to his bloodlust.

Pansy glared at Draco, misinterpreting his reaction. "Fine," she said stiffly, stalking off, her long dark hair swinging wildly with her haste. Draco watched her go in distress.

"Pansy, wait!" he demanded, standing up fluidly. Pansy turned around, her green and silver tie uncharacteristically askew. Her darkly rimmed eyes examined him shrewdly, their glare diminishing slightly as she evaluated his unhealthy appearance.

She strode back to Draco, pausing just in front of him. Draco tensed slightly; Pansy was known to have a nasty taste for revenge when she felt slighted. "You're lucky I know you so well, Draco," her voice still stony as she smoothed a wrinkle from his white dress shirt. Draco, though, could hear the slight warmth infusing her tone, and mentally thanked whatever fates the universe held. Outwardly, though, he merely nodded slightly.

Draco picked up his schoolbag, and Pansy possessively grabbed his arm. The two friends leaned heavily on each other for one brief instant, before their backs straightened and their faces turned expressionless as they strode out the classroom door, the epitome of Slytherin pride.

--

The next day, owls fluttered over the Great Hall, swooping down to deposit letters. A barn owl dropped a rolled up newspaper next to Hermione with a loud _thunk. _Hermione absently unrolled the paper, and then gasped as she saw the headline.

"Oh no…" Hermione breathed, staring down at the Daily Prophet in horror. Ron, Harry and Ginny crowded around her, their breakfasts forgotten. Around the Great Hall, the clamor of students quieted abruptly as everyone noticed the glaring headline of the newspaper.

"Bloody hell," Ron said, dropping the piece of toast he had been holding.

_VAMPIRES ATTACK MUGGLE VILLAGE! __DARK MARK LEFT OVER THE SCENE_. The first headline read. Underneath it, in marginally smaller letters:_No Survivors Left Alive._

_VAMPIRES ATTACK MUGGLE VILLAGE! DARK MARK LEFT OVER THE SCENE. _

_No Survivors Left Alive_

_By Rita Skeeter, Daily Prophet reporter. _

_Both the wizarding and muggle worlds were left in a state of panic today. Last night, vampires, fighting alongside unidentified figures in dark robes and masks, attacked Ramsbury, a muggle village in West Berkshire. The carnage was horrific. The muggles had been caught unaware, without adequate knowledge of how to defend against vampires. The bodies were ripped into pieces, although as of yet, Aurors have yet to find a single body drained of blood, a trademark of all vampire attacks._

_Although this attack initially appeared to be caused by common bloodlust, it now appears that the attack was in fact a systematic, planned assault on the muggles of Ramsbury. Even more shocking than the desecrated bodies, though, was the glowing green Dark Mark which had been cast multiple times over the village. _

_One Auror who examined the scene, but wished to remain anonymous because of reigning political opinion, said, "I have to say, this looks an awful lot like You-Know-Who's old attacks." When asked, however, Rufus Scrimgeor, the newly instated Minister of Magic, said merely, "England's Aurors are the best. I have complete confidence in their ability to handle whatever caused the attack." _

_Readers must remember that when You-Know-Who last rose to power, he created an army composed of Dark creatures, including vampires and werewolves. Undoubtedly, vampires and wizards were responsible for the attack. The real question is, has You-Know-Who returned, and was he behind the attacks? Although not officially confirmed by the Ministry, just last year, Cornellius Fudge resigned as Minister of Magic amid wide-spread rumors of You-Know-Who's break-in at the Ministry. _

_This _Daily Prophet_ reporter shudders to think of the consequences if You-Know-Who has truly returned, and has indeed resumed his war on the wizarding world. You-Know-Who is the most infamous Dark Wizard in the long succession of Dark wizards and witches which have emerged from Slytherin House. _

_The attack follows exactly two weeks after the attack on Haverhill, the last in a series of grisly attacks on muggle villages which have occurred with alarming regularity every fortnight since July 1. Dark creatures, alongside hooded wizards, committed all the attacks, and You-Know-Who's Dark Mark was seen above every village. Readers are warned to establish wards around their homes, and to alert the Aurors if they see anything alarming. All known humanoid Dark creatures are being brought in for questioning by the Ministry._

_On how to defend against vampires, see page five. On how to defend against werewolves, see page five. On how to defend against…._

Hermione crumpled the newspaper violently onto the table, her expression bleak. "That's horrible," she whispered. Ron hugged her gently, and Hermione clung tightly to the red-head.

Harry looked down slightly to see Ginny staring at the headline of the paper. "This, this," she gestured wildly at the paper, where a picture of the Dark Mark glowed eerily over a pile of bodies, "This is _awful_," she finished.

Harry clasped her to him with one arm. "Don't worry, Ginny," he said awkwardly, "It'll all be fine." Harry cursed his clumsy tongue, wishing he could comfort Ginny better. Sensing his helplessness, Dean Thomas came over, prying Ginny away from Harry gently.

"Ginny," he said, his voice calm, "why don't you come with me?" Harry glanced at Dean gratefully, but the other boy was too busy murmuring reassurances in Ginny's ear to notice. With a slight pang of jealousy, Harry noticed the desperation Ginny gripped Dean with, as though Dean was the only point of stability in a wildly oscillitating world. Harry deliberately ignored the feeling, having silently given Dean and Ginny his blessing at the beginning of Sixth Year. He and Ginny had never been suited to a relationship with each other, anyway.

Harry turned back to Ron and Hermione, who were still grasping each other's hands tightly. "Its definitely Voldemort," Harry whispered, answering their unspoken question. "My scar kept prickling all last night. Whatever happened, Voldemort was really happy."

"Those poor muggles," Hermione said sadly, gazing at the newspaper. "I have to wonder, though, with the attacks occurring every fortnight, it almost seems like Voldemort –"Ron flinched slightly, Hermione ignored him to continue, "like Voldemort is planning something…" She trailed off, a pensive expression on her face.

In the quiet, Harry had time to listen to the voices in the Great Hall, who whispered the news with a hint of panic in their voices.

"…vampires again, last week it was werewolves…"

"…no survivors…"

"…sounds like Death Eaters…working with vampires…"

"…He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's Death Eaters…Slytherins, most of them…"

"…should toss out the Slytherins…sodding Death Eater's in-training, toss them out before they open Hogwarts to You-Know-Who…" The murmured diatribes were accompanied by ferocious glares toward the Slytherin table.

"Will you look at those fucking Slytherins," Ron fumed unexpectedly, pulling out his wand as he glared at the Slytherin table.

"Ron, stop it," Hermione said softly, as other people turned to look at Ron. The red-haired boy, though, was angered beyond reason.

"Just look at them, though, Hermione! They're not even bothered by this," he shook the newspaper loudly. The Slytherins did not noticeably react. Some of the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, however, nodded emphatically with Ron's words. Harry stepped between Ron's view of the Slytherin table, placing his hands on the other boy's shoulders.

"Listen to me, Ron," Harry stated firmly, "You have to relax. They've done nothing wrong."

"Why don't we go back to the Common Room?" Hermione suggested, pulling Ron slightly to the door. Ron sputtered loudly.

"Now is _not_ the time," Harry interrupted Ron, helping Hermione guide the other boy out the Great Hall with the least amount of commotion possible. As they reached the doors, Harry looked back at the Slytherin table, an unmoving sea of green and silver.

All the Slytherin students, even the youngest First Years, sat quietly, seemingly unaffected by the upheaval in the Great Hall. Studying them further, though, Harry abruptly realized the abnormality of their expressionless faces and too stiff posture, a caricature of apathy. It almost seemed as though the entire Slytherin table was tensed for a fight. Indeed, Harry saw that Crabbe and Goyle both gripped their wands tightly in meaty hands. Two seats away, the cords in Draco Malfoy's neck stood out starkly, the blonde boy's teeth clenched from the tension. Pansy Parkinson, sitting next to Malfoy, noticed Harry's interest, and subtly gestured with her wand, only the tip emerging from her robes, thereby indicating that he should continue with his exit. Harry left the Great Hall.

--

"Well, that was certainly interesting," Pansy remarked, her wand, though hidden, still pointed at the other Houses in the Great Hall. Draco nodded, slowly releasing a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"Potter's reaction was strange," Pansy continued. Draco noticed her dark eyes shrewdly studying his face, searching for a reaction. He deliberately kept his expression blank, as he motioned subtly for the Slytherin table to begin departing the Great Hall. It was well-done; the exit would appear very normal to a casual observer. Only the Slytherins knew the departure was planned. The First and Second Years left first, followed progressively by bunches of the progressively older students, each group of younger Slytherins accompanied by at least one Sixth or Seventh Year Slytherin.

Finally, all the Slytherins arrived back in the dungeons, clustered in the Slytherin Common Room, the door locked and warded tightly with a convoluted password. Draco gestured for the other Sixth and Seventh Year students to follow him into the Green Room. The Green Room, a type of smaller Common Room, was only used for emergency meetings between Slytherin students.

Draco addressed the group, sitting at attention on the green patterned furniture.

"It's not Saint Potter's reaction I'm worried about," Draco glanced meaningfully at Pansy. "If enough of the students in the other Houses have a reaction like Weasley's, any more attacks will be vindicated against our Slytherins."

The Slytherins paled. They all understood the severity of the situation. When the Dark Lord had last attacked, many such _accidents_ had been perpetrated against the Slytherins by the other Houses. Some had been of a life-threatening seriousness. Draco acknowledged their worry, his face grim.

Pansy spoke determinedly, "We'll change the password every day, twice a day, if need be. We need additional wards on the door, too."

Draco glanced down the rows of students, until, finally, "Zabini!" Blaise Zabini stood gracefully, and walked over to Draco's location in the middle of the Green Room. "Get Nott and Greengrass to make some additional safety measures to protect the younger students. I don't want any of them venturing out alone."

Blaise's exotic features were thoughtful. "We should reinstitute roll call at night," he suggested softly, "if the attacks continue."

Everyone agreed, their expressions serious, and Blaise left to conference with Theodore Nott and Daphne Greengrass. _Bang!_ A loud knock sounded at the door, and a familiar voice called out acidly, "Open the door!"

The students sighed in relief, although they did not relax entirely until a green and silver snake, made entirely of glowing sparks, slithered under the door, disabling the wards. Severus Snape, dressed entirely in black, strode over the threshold, through the special entrance the Slytherins had forged for him into the wards. The wards, an obscure derivative of the Age Line, only responded to Snape's personal magical signature, so not even Polyjuice could fool the powerful wards.

"Hello, sir," Draco welcomed Severus calmly, despite the increasing temptation of the blood around him. One did not show any weakness in Slytherin House.

Severus did not respond, instead examining the array of wards Draco's Slytherins had erected with evident pride.

"I'm glad you all have managed to retain your wits, at least, unlike those other idiots in the Great Hall." Severus's voice dripped acidic disdain.

"How are they responding to the news, sir?" Draco asked.

"Luckily, Weasley's fool reaction was the worst," some of the tension noticeable dissipated from the room, "But I am concerned should these attacks continue. I trust you have barricaded yourselves so cleverly into this room to discuss the matter?"

Quickly, Draco outlined their plans. Severus's black eyes glittered strangely after he finished. "I will frequently be _indisposed_ this year," Severus hinted delicately. The Slytherins looked at him in alarm, knowing he meant the Dark Lord. "Whatever your alliances, do not do anything to endanger Slytherin House," he commanded severely, a promise of pain for anyone who defied his edict. Severus glowered at them all a moment longer, before he swept out of the room with a terse nod.

Pansy and her Sixth Year girls had distinctly shiny eyes, but quickly, their faces resumed a cunning expression as they discussed the minutia involved in some of the plans.

They took lunch and dinner inside Slytherin House, refusing to allow the younger students outside. It was a Saturday; their absence would not be noticed.

Finally, around eleven at night, the older Slytherins departed for bed, momentarily satisfied with their plans. Draco escorted Pansy to her room, walking inside. Inside the room, Pansy's smell was almost addictively sweet. Draco had forgotten his thirst in the panic of the morning, but now, facing Pansy alone, away from any onlookers, his thirst came rushing back with a painful intensity.

Draco forced himself to focus. "Keep an eye on Nott," Draco said tiredly, hunger and bloodlust sapping his energy. "His father's Inner Circle. If anything happens, I want to know where his loyalties will lie."

"And what about your loyalties, Draco darling?" Pansy asked, stretching across her bed, hair and clothes mussed, shirt unbuttoned past any illusion of ladylike decorum.

Draco smiled at her deliberately obvious ploy, keeping his answer as vague as possible as he leaned over, whispering into her hair, "My loyalties are my own."

Pansy pushed him off the bed in mock irritation, and Draco realized in alarm that his fangs had extended, their sharp edges cutting his lip like a razor. Suddenly, Draco did not want to leave the room. All of his attention focused on the slow pulse beating in Pansy's neck.

The shadows in the room appeared to shift, collapse, until it appeared to Draco that a spotlight shone on Pansy's neck. Every movement attracted, Draco watched her heart pulse, her breathing quicken. In the back of his mind, Draco knew he scared Pansy, half hidden in the shadows, his fangs extended, but he was riveted to the spot, hypnotized by the blood flowing just under Pansy's fragile skin.

_Bang!_ The door slammed shut in front of him, the noise breaking Draco's trance. He had to leave the room, before Pansy noticed… Quickly, he tried to spell the door open with a hastily muttered,"_Alohomora!" _to no avail.

"Damn it, Pansy, let me out!" Draco's tone dropped dangerously.

"Turn around, and give me your wand," Pansy commanded, her voice steady. Draco felt a brief flash of pride for his best friend, but that was quickly quenched by his rapidly mounting apprehension. Vampires were not beloved in the wizarding world, especially among the pureblood community, where they were looked upon as disgraces, family abominations, and killed to preserve the purity of the bloodline.

Draco placed his wand on the ground, and turned slowly to look at Pansy, knowing all too well what Pansy saw. _Monster._ _Freak_. The pale skin, supernatural grace, and, even more damning, the pointed fangs revealed when he spoke.

"Relax, Pansy," Draco said, and Pansy, standing there only in her crumpled white dress shirt, gasped as his fangs were exposed. Draco braced himself for the first curse.

"This…this is why you've been acting so strangely. Avoiding the sunlight, not eating…" Pansy's cold voice was Draco's judge, jury, and executioner. This _hatred_ was how the rest of the wizarding world would react to him. He would be doubly hunted, both for being a Malfoy, and for being a vampire. Worse, he could not claim credit for either of those scandals. Potter had done him a service by denying him blood. Soon, Draco would starve, die, be freed of this disgrace, this _disgust_.

"You're a vampire." Draco nodded, his hands still raised non-threateningly in the air. Pansy had yet to lower her wand.

"Pansy…" Draco could not bear to lose Pansy's friendship.

"When did you last drink?" Pansy asked, her tone harsh.

"Six days ago," Draco replied, voice heavy with regret. Just saying the words made him distinctly aware of the blood flowing through Pansy's veins.

Pansy noticed his look, and backed away slowly, until her back pressed up against the wall. Draco's hyper-aware senses could hear the rough stone wall grinding against Pansy's shoulder blades. "Do you have a blood donor?" Pansy's question surprised Draco. He had been expecting a well-aimed curse.

"Yes," Draco answered. _Fucking Potter and his fucking Binding Pact. _Draco did not like being solely dependent on Potter's meager generosity. If Draco had been drinking blood every two days, like he should have been, Pansy would have never been the wiser.

Pansy studied Draco a while longer, her cool gaze betraying nothing of her thoughts. Finally, she lowered her wand. "One chance, Draco," Pansy declared. Draco's eyes darted once again to her neck. Pansy saw his look, and her eyes narrowed dangerously. "Don't touch me until you've fed, either," Pansy snapped.

Draco nodded. "Fair enough," he whispered. Draco moved to leave, picking his wand back up off the floor. He still could not open the door, however. He turned back to Pansy, to find her scrutinizing his appearance.

"You look awful," she said finally. "Your hair's a mess." Reflexively, Draco hands shot to his head, and he winced as his fingers tugged at large tangles. He could not actually remember the last time he had combed his hair. The last week had deteriorated into a crimson blur of pain and thirst.

Draco looked back at Pansy, still carding his fingers through his matted hair in an undoubtedly futile effort to restore order. He didn't have the energy to attempt a spell at the moment.

Surprisingly, Pansy took pity on him, casting a small grooming charm. Instantly, Draco's hair was sleek and smooth to the touch.

"You couldn't have done that earlier?" Draco demanded.

To his utter shock, Pansy laughed. "But you looked so appalling disheveled, darling. Sort of like a blonde Potter," Pansy grinned mischievously. "Plus, I never get the chance to out-dress Draco Malfoy."

Draco glared playfully at Pansy, who never stopped smirking.

--

Harry's dreams always contained death. Screams, blood, torture, death; an endless litany of pain.

It was not the clean green light of the Killing Curse, either. Instead, Harry was forced to witness Voldemort's victims suffer as their skin was slowly peeled off, their eyes gouged out, all manner of sadistic torments. Worse, Voldemort and his Death Eaters always laughed. Voldemort, in particular, found the torture sessions amusing, as he alone was aware of Harry's presence, taunting Harry as he callously arranged yet another person's violent death.

"Please, spare my children!" The woman kneeling in front of Voldemort begged, her children sobbing behind her. Blood was splattered in a perverse crimson pattern across the wall by the woman.

Harry, trapped inside Voldemort, laughed mercilessly at her plea_, _a cruel parody of humor. _"Having fun yet, Harry?" _Harry did not reply.

Voldemort gestured to one of the hooded men arrayed behind him. "I have a treat for you, Fenrir," Voldemort hissed.

Fenrir Greyback strode forward, pulling off his hood. The nails on his hands were long, ragged, dried blood coloring them a filthy red. Harry broke his silence. _"Don't do this," _Harry demanded_. _

"Thank you, my Lord," Greyback grinned, showing yellowed teeth, all filed to sharp points. "You know how much I _love_ children," the werewolf rasped, pulling the two children, one boy, one girl, roughly to their feet, stroking one jagged nail down their pale faces, leaving trails of blood.

"_Don't let him do this_," Harry mentally pleaded with Voldemort, ignoring how much doing so hurt his pride.

"_And why shouldn't I?"_ Voldemort replied, his voice amused, knowing Harry could do nothing to stop what was happening. _"You'd do well to remember that at night, Harry, you're in my world."_ Greyback dragged the children away, their cries filling the air.

"_No!"_ Harry yelled, desperate to stop the pain, the death, _just once, only once_.

Voldemort raised his wand on the children's mother once more. "Crucio!" The woman screamed as she descended into madness, then death... And, through it all, Harry could do _nothing_.

--

Harry woke with a start, sweat pouring down his face. It felt like a burning poker had been pressed against his scar, searing it with an almost unbearable pain. Harry reached up, gingerly touching his forehead, his fingers coming away sticky with blood.

Even now, safe in Gryffindor Tower, Harry could hear the screams of the woman and her children repeating louder and louder, intolerable in the small enclosed bed.

Harry ripped the red and gold hangings surrounding his bed open, tumbling out of his bed, onto the ground. In the next bed, Ron's snores sputtered, before continuing uninterrupted, louder than before. Harry looked at his own bed, but was loath to climb back inside. He knew Voldemort was awaiting him should he fall asleep again tonight.

Harry walked over the window, gazing at the moon shining outside. He was getting less and less sleep every night as Voldemort's attacks became more and more frequent.

Experimentally, Harry fingered the smooth metal of the window latch, opening the window quietly, sending a shock of cold air into the room.

Quickly, Harry changed into his old Quidditch practice clothes, covering them with a warm coat. He grabbed his Firebolt as he headed back to the open window. Harry squeezed inside the cramped window space, his broom scraping against the stone. Harry hesitated, looking back at the closed bed hangings which concealed his slumbering roommates.

Making up his mind, Harry jumped, flinging himself recklessly into the cold night air, heedless of the deadly drop below him. The wind whistled in his ears as he fell, managing to mount his broom scarcely two meters above the ground. Harry hovered for a moment over the frost covered ground, chest heaving as adrenaline pumped through his body. Far above him, Harry could just see the window to his dormitory, a vague black spot barely distinguishable from the night's darkness.

Suddenly, Harry was filled with the urge to move, and accelerated quickly, flying over the silent Hogwarts grounds, the cold nighttime air and the sheer joy of flying, free of any rules or boundaries, finally driving the nightmarish visions from his mind.

lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll

A/N: Fifteen pages, one for every review I recieved on the last chapter! (That's why it took so long) Enjoy…I had so much fun writing Pansy, and, bizarrely, Voldemort too. Hope you like it! Oh…and Happy Halloween, too!


	7. Chapter Seven

**BLOOD DONOR**

Summary: A vampyric Draco Malfoy attacks Harry Potter at Kings Cross before the start of Sixth Year. Now, Harry must escape a deal made with his own personal demon while he prepares to face Voldemort again…but is Draco truly an enemy? HP/DM

Warnings: Slash. Violence, angst. AU after Order of the Phoenix.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.

Favorite Review: My friend _volleyballwb9 _who said it wasn't what she was expecting, but it was good anyway. Personally, I'm just so very happy she reviewed. Thanks _volleyballwb9_! You're the best.

A/N: I'm having fun writing this, I have to admit. I even have a plot!

llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll

Harry cautiously walked into the Charms classroom at midnight. He thought midnight was almost horrifically appropriate for the forthcoming meeting, but that might have been the panic talking. Midnight, the witching hour, the time when muggles believed the barrier between the magical and physical world weakened, allowing spirits to enter the world.

Maybe, though, midnight was not so fitting. In his own, personal experience, _hell_ tended to strengthen at night, transforming the night's dark beauty into something frightening. All of his worst memories involved the suffocating blackness of night. The last thing Harry wanted was for midnight's presence to exacerbate his bad fortune.

Fact or supposition, the darkness cast a highly eerie effect upon the whole situation, Harry reflected grimly. Hogwarts at night no longer held the same allure it had for Harry merely a week before.

Carefully, he removed his Invisibility Cloak, folding it neatly. There was no sense keeping it on, Malfoy already knew he had it. Harry glanced around the classroom, noticing Malfoy's absence.

"_Tempus." _The glowing red numbers informed Harry that it was indeed, five minutes past midnight. Malfoy was late.

Not that Malfoy's delay bothered Harry. If Malfoy did not appear in five more minutes, Harry would happily leave, and celebrate retaining all of his blood tonight. He would leave now, but Gryffindors honored their promises.

"Potter." Malfoy's cold voice rang throughout the classroom, an unspoken challenge to do battle. Malfoy had an uncanny ability to mutilate Harry's plain surname, transforming it into the blackest of curses.

"Malfoy," Harry responded coolly, reaching for his wand. Warily, Harry positioned himself opposite the door. He'd be damned if he allowed Malfoy to attack him unawares again.

Harry grinned ferociously, remembering how appealing crunch of bone, the red splatter of blood, had seemed when he broke Malfoy's nose in Potions. How good it had felt to make Malfoy bleed…

"Happy to see me, scarhead?" Malfoy asked derisively, appearing before Harry before he had even noticed the Slytherin boy at the door.

"No." _Never._

"Pity," Malfoy drawled indifferently, striding closer. Unconsciously, Harry stepped back, stopping as Malfoy smirked triumphantly.

"Don't flatter yourself. You're not even remotely frightening," Harry declared boldly.

"I never said I was, Potter." The light gleamed off Malfoy's fangs as the vampire laughed mockingly.

"Burn in hell."

Malfoy paled momentarily, as though struck. He strode up to Harry, chips of ice in his eyes; heedless of the warning sparks shooting out of Harry's wand as the Slytherin approached. They stood, face to face, a harsh juxtaposition of light and dark, Slytherin and Gryffindor, bitter opposites in every way.

For a brief instant, Malfoy abandoned his cool composure, his pale features appearing wild, inhuman. The vampire bared his teeth at Harry in a frightening approximation of a smile. "I'll see you to hell with me, Potter." The grim statement sounded like an unholy promise, made in the black of night with blood and solemn sacrifice.

"Let's finish this now," Harry replied harshly, "So I don't have to see your miserable face for another week."

Malfoy slammed him up against the wall, all rage and feral hunger. Harry groaned in pain, and Malfoy smirked at him, grey eyes flashing. "For some reason, that never gets boring," Malfoy drawled maliciously.

Harry glared fiercely at the other boy. "Do that again, Malfoy, and I won't give you my blood."

Malfoy's gaze hardened, and he pressed Harry up against the wall. "You're forgetting the Pact," Malfoy stated with a steely calm. "You have to give me blood, or I have free reign to hurt your precious friends."

Harry's eyes widened slightly in alarm. He had overlooked that particular aspect of the Binding Pact. Truthfully, when he pressured Malfoy into making the Pact, he had been furious, blinded by rage. When he discovered the spell for the Pact in the Restricted Section of the Library, hidden in the back of a dusty book, it had seemed like the perfect solution. Harry hadn't paused to even remotely consider the long-term consequences.

Once again, Malfoy laughed at Harry, the sound sharp-edged, humor flirting dangerously along the border of insanity. "You've bound yourself to me far tighter with that Pact than being my blood donor ever could have achieved."

"Shut the fuck up." Harry could hear his own voice thrum with anger. "Let's just finish this."

"Fine."

--

"Fine," Draco replied tersely, glaring harshly at Potter. He was so, so very thirsty. It had taken most of Draco's remaining strength to walk to the Charms classroom tonight.

Draco leaned closer to Potter, who he still held pinned to the wall, far more forcefully than was actually needed. Draco did not care. At this point, nothing gave him greater joy than causing Potter pain. The fact Draco could still physically win a fight between Potter and himself said quite a lot, as did the dark circles bruising the area under Potter's eyes.

Draco flashed his fangs experimentally. Potter flinched backwards, his head hitting the wall, and then looked disgusted with himself.

This close, Draco could feel Potter's heartbeat, its fast pace betraying Potter's fear, even though the other boy's green eyes glared curses in the dark. The smell of Potter's blood permeated every aspect of Draco's awareness.

Draco's self-control shattered. He bit Potter's neck, making certain his fangs unduly ripped and tore the skin. Blood flowed into his mouth, and Draco swallowed it hungrily. Draco drank, barely noticing, or caring, when Potter slackened in his grip.

Dimly, Draco knew the Blood Pact was activating, the silver stars on the undersides of both their wrists glowing in the dark. However, he could not muster any particular concern.

Bloodlust had overwhelmed Draco. The world tinted a bloody crimson; he could only taste Potter's blood, only hear Potter's heartbeat.

A rather fortunate loophole existed in the Binding Pact Potter had forced Draco into, one Draco had knowingly encouraged. Potter had said Draco could drink a _necessary amount_ of his blood as Draco needed, providing he only drank once a week. At the moment, Draco required quite a lot of blood.

Draco intended to exploit the Binding Pact to his fullest ability. There was a reason reckless Gryffindors should not attempt plots requiring Slytherin subtlety; it was a lesson Draco fully planned to teach Potter.

Slowly, very slowly, Draco became aware of the unnatural sluggishness of Potter's heartbeat, accompanied by increasingly faint puffs of breath on his neck. Draco forced himself to stop drinking, one of the most difficult acts of self-control he had ever encountered, and unlatched his fangs from Potter's neck with a sickening _squelch. _Draco grimaced, looking at the dead weight in his arms.

"Potter. Wake up. Potter!" Draco shook the Gryffindor boy harshly, annoyed when Potter exhibited all the resistance of a limp rag doll.

"Shite." Draco spoke matter-of-factly, glancing futilely around the classroom for assistance. He still held Potter in his arms; the other boy's head slumped on his shoulder in a trustful manner Potter had never exhibited towards Draco while conscious.

Draco lowered Potter onto the floor, noticing the boy would have appeared peaceful, if not for the macabre blood dripping down Potter's neck and onto his shirt collar.

"_Tergeo._" Draco's spell removed the majority of the blood off Potter's neck. Now, Potter's features were clearly visible. Unconscious, Potter's face appeared far softer and younger_, _lacking the hatred which blackened his features like a thundercloud whenever he looked at Draco.

Draco stared at Potter's scar, barely visible through the tangle of black hair hanging over Potter's forehead. Such an ignoble act to be famous for; living when his parents had died. Such a fluke, a baby boy defeating the Dark Lord. A mistake, that was all Potter was famous for.

Looking at Potter now, Draco was once against impressed by supreme idiodicy of the Ministry, of Dumbledore, of the entire wizarding world, to believe a Gryffindor schoolboy could defeat a Slytherin Dark Lord. When the Dark Lord finally struck, Potter, no matter how large his army of unbearably-pompous Mudbloods and blood traitors, wouldn't have a chance in hell.

--

Harry woke up, lying on a cold stone floor. Again. _Fucking Malfoy. _The room was still dark, the murky shadows blurring together. The gloom made it near impossible to discern the objects in the room. _He wasn't late for class, at least_, Harry reflected with a bitter smile.

He shivered violently, chills racking his body as the cold from the floor seeped through his thin shirt. Harry felt frozen, an intense cold numbing his hands and feet. His head felt like a Bludger had hit him. Harry struggled to rise, and fell violently against the wall with a curse when his feet refused to support his weight. A lancing pain shot up his arm. He would have a nasty bruise tomorrow. Probably several, considering Malfoy's sadistic behavior. As soon as Harry managed to stand vertically, black dots obscured his vision, accompanied by a rush of blood. He was becoming uncomfortably familiar with the effects of blood loss. _Fucking Malfoy, _leaving him here alone, once again, unconscious on the floor.

Harry stooped down to pick up his wand, but the mere shift of position made the world tilt dizzily. Briefly, Harry felt the familiar contours of his wand in the darkness, but the blood loss initially prevented him from curling his fingers and grabbing it.

Eventually, Harry gathered enough strength to pick up his wand and cast a feeble, "_Lumos_," the dim light barely illuminating the immediate area.

Harry settled his Invisibility Cloak around his shoulders, the cool whisper of cloth over his skin oddly reassuring. Carefully, Harry began the long trudge back to the Gryffindor Tower, one arm always braced against the wall for support and balance.

He had traveled roughly half of the way to the Tower when a distinct scraping sounded near Harry's feet. Harry tensed, thinking Malfoy had returned. As he peered through the dark, wand raised in a combative stance, a small shape darted across the corridor. Not Malfoy, then.

Harry raised his wand a little higher, the weak light reflecting off gleaming yellow cat eyes in the darkness. _Shite. _

"Shoo," Harry whispered softly, motioning, _praying_, for Mrs. Norris to continue past him. Instead, the mangy cat sat still, regarding him with unblinking eyes, before hastening back down the corridor.

"Sodding hell," Harry cursed, hastily muttering, "_Nox," _extinguishing the light emitting from his wand. How had he been so stupid to travel around Hogwarts at night with a fucking_ beacon _shining from his wand, Invisibility Cloak or not?

Harry sprinted in the opposite direction from which Mrs. Norris had departed, as fast as the pain and blood loss would allow. Mrs. Norris would fetch Filch, who would be only too happy to catch Harry running around the castle after curfew. The man had a vicious hatred of the students. It was pure luck Harry and Malfoy had not hadn't been caught before, by Filch or any of the teachers who prowled the castle after curfew.

Harry barreled down the corridors, ducking through a tapestry which concealed a cramped passageway. He ran, brushing aside the cobwebs decorating the passageway with eerie similarity to Acromantula nests in the Forbidden Forest, his Invisibility Cloak flapping in the air. Finally, he emerged near the Gryffindor Tower, and stood in front of the Fat Lady, hastily trying to make her open the Portrait Hole.

"Fortes fortuna adiuvat," Harry repeated the password like a prayer as the Fat Lady stirred sleepily. "Fortes fortuna adiuvat. Fortes -" To his great relief, the Portrait Hole finally swung open. Harry clambered inside, struggling to keep his Invisibility Cloak on, just managing to swing the Portrait Hole shut as Filch appeared, an indistinct figure cursing at the other end of the corridor.

Out of breath, Harry looked over the darkened Common Room triumphantly. Suddenly, though, his strength dissipated in a rush, and Harry almost crumpled to the ground, just able to catch himself on an armchair.

Slowly, carefully, Harry navigated his way up the stairs, clutching the banister like a lifeline until he arrived in his dormitory. He collapsed on his four-poster bed, tiredly removing his Invisibility Cloak. Almost instantly, Harry fell fast asleep. Tonight, only normal nightmares plagued Harry's dreams.

--

"Harry, mate, are you alright?" Ron's concerned tone rousted Harry from a fitful sleep.

"What's the matter?" Harry asked blearily, only his head and shoulders visible above his blankets. Suddenly, Harry started upright. Last night, he had forgotten to remove the excess of blood which always covered him after a nightmarish encounter with Malfoy.

"I'm fine," Harry corrected hastily, attempting to tug the curtains on his four-poster closed with one hand. His other hand scrabbled around the bed sheets, searching desperately for his wand. Ron might not have seen exactly how much blood…

Oddly, though, Ron smiled broadly. "So that's were you went last night," Ron gestured towards Harry's neck. Quickly, Harry clasped a hand over his the bite mark on his neck.

"Everyone, get over here!" Ron voice rang through the dormitory. "Harry came back."

Soon, a cluster of boys grouped over Harry's bed, all in different states of undress. Clearly, they had been preparing for school when Ron called out. They looked at Harry, grinning.

"So, who'd you meet up with?" Seamus smirked mischievously.

"What are you going on about?" Harry asked with forced calm, still attempting to find his wand.

"Come on, mate," Ron said, "Just tell us her name?"

"What?" Harry looked quizzically at his roommates.

"We won't tell anyone," Neville promised with a small smile.

"Yeah," Seamus and Dean agreed, smirking.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Harry argued.

"Come on… You snuck out last night again," Ron answered, grinning. "Came back late, and this morning, you have a bite mark on your neck! Who'd you snog?"

"Err…" Harry blushed at the unexpected question, walking quickly over to the mirror to hide his confusion. To his evident shock, there was no blood on his neck or shirt, just a faint marking on his neck, which did look remarkably like a hickey. Maybe he had remembered to clean off the blood…No, Harry had passed out almost as soon as he arrived back at the dormitory. Malfoy must have, for some Slytherin reason unknown to Harry, spelled away the blood.

Ron, all smiles, stepped impatiently between Harry and the mirror. "So who was the girl?"

"Err…"

--

Draco hated the silver star on the underside of his wrist, despite the fact it was only identifiable by a subtle silver gleam when the light caught it properly. It wasn't even aesthetically displeasing; to the contrary, Draco thought silver complimented his pale skin quite nicely, like steel on snow.

No, Draco despised the star because it physically represented the Binding Pact Potter had forced him into. In a way, it was akin to having Potter's mark branded onto his skin. Draco almost laughed. A Gryffindor's version of the Dark Mark, just as damning, but twice as dangerous, because it came disguised with nauseatingly good intentions.

It haunted him, gleaming silver in the low light illuminating Draco's room. Draco, as a prefect, enjoyed the unmitigated privacy of his own room, but the surrounding Slytherin dormitories were quiet, anyway. This time on Saturday morning, everyone was at breakfast. Draco had declined accompanying them, the mere act of sitting at the dining table meaningless.

Draco could not eat.

He could not think, could not concentrate…

The star gleamed up at him incongruously. It was silver, but Draco saw red; crimson red, fury, pain, anger, death, blood, all contained in one offensive color. Draco had always despised Gryffindor red.

He hated it, the star. His nails ripped and tore at his wrist, cutting, scratching, ruining, perverting…Blood welled up from the scrapes, delicious, glorious, _hateful_ red, running down his wrist, staining his fingertips.

Draco hated the blood, too.

All he wanted was for the hunger, the pain, to stop. It was horrible, worse than unbearable, and it was all Potter's fault; Potter, and his Binding Pact…

Blood dripped onto his green coverlet, a dark, almost black stain defiling the pristine Slytherin color.

Draco did not care.

He dug, and scratched, and tore, ripped bloody furrows into his skin, but the light from the Binding Pact's mark still shone silver through the blood. The two colors, the red and silver, mingling together, looked awful…like blood on steel.

_Crash! _His door slammed open, a dark figure silhouetted in the opening. Pansy Parkinson looked around the dark room for Draco who stood quickly, bloodied wrist forgotten. Pansy glanced dismissively the blood dripping down his wrist, onto the floor. Slytherins were quite used to blood.

"What happened?" Draco asked coolly. Pansy never invaded his rooms without his permission unless there was an emergency.

"There's been another attack," Pansy snapped. "A wizarding village, this time. Professor Snape wasn't at breakfast, either." Her gaze condemned Draco for his absence, as well. "The other Houses read the paper, and started screaming…"

"I don't suppose that fool Dumbledore has miraculously returned?" Draco drawled, already discounting the option before Pansy answered. Slytherin House did not possess that degree of good fortune.

"No."

"Is everyone in the Common Room?" They could not afford to allow any Slytherin student to wander the castle by themselves. With another attack, the rest of the school was undoubtedly reminding themselves of Slytherin House's dark past, and undeniable connection to Voldemort, building conspiracies, creating mass hysteria. How convenient for the other Houses, to have Slytherin to blame. Good and evil, black and white, all bundled into neat little packages. Merlin forbid they search for traitors in their own midst.

Pansy shook her head. "Baddock and Pritchard are missing. There wasn't supposed to be an attack for another week. We hadn't prepared for the eventuality of an attack beforehand."

"Shite," Draco cursed at her words, sprinting down the narrow corridors which composed the Slytherin dormitories, until he arrived near the entrance of Common Room. He deliberately paused then, smoothing his hair and his robes, Pansy, breathless behind him, did the same.

Above all, Malfoys never showed weakness.

"Exactly how bad was the attack?" Draco asked Pansy in a low voice before he entered the Common Room.

"Bad. They attacked Tinworth, killing all of the muggles there." Pansy's dark eyes gleamed with ill-disguised disgust.

"Only the muggles?" That wouldn't be too bad. Proper wizards should not live near muggles, anyway.

"They haven't found any of the wizards, and there was a strong Anti-Disapparation ward cast over the entire village." Pansy did not need to voice her next sentence. Draco knew the unlikelihood of any of the wizards still being alive.

Draco strode into the Common Room without speaking, pushing through the throng of students until he stood on the steps leading to the Entrance, deliberately positioning himself so he was taller than anyone else in the room. Pansy took the step below him without comment. Silence reigned in the Common Room, despite the veritable sea of green and silver clad students.

He addressed the Common Room as a whole. "Ward the doors. Absolutely no one leaves. Anyone who disobeys, I'll curse until their eyes bleed."

Draco turned to Pansy, leaning toward her subtly. "You and your girls need to keep them steady while I'm gone." She nodded, baring her teeth. Draco half-smiled. Pansy was far more dangerous an opponent than her carefully cultivated shallow exterior demeanor suggested. Of course, the girl was a Slytherin, skilled in deceit. It was never intelligent to show an enemy the exact power of his opponent.

Draco gestured to Vince and Greg, arraying their bulk behind him in a show of strength. "We're going to look for Baddock and Pritchard," he informed Pansy in a low voice. He drew his wand from its sheath on his dragonhide belt, dismayed to find his right hand slippery from the blood dripping from his wrist. It would greatly disadvantage him when fighting.

Pansy noticed, and firmly took his right hand, whispering a healing spell. The scratches, though not deep, had bled profusely.

A soft white glow enveloped his hand, healing the cuts. Draco nodded Pansy his thanks. She laughed. The sound had a slightly jagged edge, like shards of broken glass.

"Red really isn't your color, darling. Plus, you'll scar." Her eyes stared intently down at Draco's wrist, thumb moving to caress the area where the silver star of the Binding Pact was located. He smoothly pulled his hand away, but Pansy's eyes had already darted to his face in horror.

"Draco…" she began to whisper.

He motioned Vince and Crabbe over to the entrance. "Ward the door," he repeated, smoothly pulling shut the entrance to the Slytherin Common Room.

Hopefully, they would not have to injure anyone unduly in order to bring back Baddock and Pritchard. Draco would hate the inconvenience of cursing someone into little, bloody pieces.

lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll

A/N: Alright, so that was a darker look in Draco's psyche at the moment. And I promise, slash will be present in this story. I want to make certain their relationship is as realistic as feasibly possible. Remember, we're only two weeks into the timeline of the fic. Don't worry, major upcoming events will soon force more Harry/Draco interactions.

_Fortes fortuna adiuvat_ – Fortune favors the brave (Gryffindor password)

Anyway, how is my characterization thus far? All suggestions and constructive reviews help me to improve my next chapter! Thanks to all who reviewed!


	8. Chapter Eight

**BLOOD DONOR**

Summary: A vampyric Draco Malfoy attacks Harry Potter at Kings Cross before the start of Sixth Year. Now, Harry must escape a deal made with his own personal demon while he prepares to face Voldemort again…but is Draco truly an enemy? HP/DM

Warnings: Slash. Violence, angst. AU after Order of the Phoenix. This chapter particularly has some dark content, of the blood and gore variety.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.

Favorite Review: Came from _ga-4-ever__, _whom I've been meaning to thank for a while. Anyway, _ga-4-ever_ said I had an _Amazing chapter! _Which made me feel utterly awesome. Thank you!

A/N: Sorry about the delay, I had a really bad case of the flu, you know, throwing up, fever, headache, sore-throat, inability to eat basically anything…It was a miserable experience. I definitely couldn't stare at a computer screen and type for a couple of days, let alone muster the coherent thought process needed to write this fic. Anyway, enjoy the new chapter!

llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll

The front page of the Daily Prophet displayed a picture of the Tinworth as the Aurors had discovered the village. Dozens, hundreds of Dark Marks glowed a sickly green over Tinworth in an endless repetition of horror, tinting the ruins of the village the violent color of the Killing Curse. It looked as though Voldemort had branded the very sky with his Dark Mark.

Harry had watched the attack happen the night before, captive in Voldemort's body, seeing everything through the perverse spectrum of Voldemort's eyes. Mutilations, horror, death, all accompanied by a horrific sense of accomplishment, of _joy._ The alien feelings terrified Harry; it was becoming increasingly impossible to discern, in a vision, where his thoughts ended and Voldemort's began…

Worse still, Harry could not even wake up, warn someone, when he had a vision anymore. Voldemort had gained a greater control over their mental link, and trapped Harry in the visions, forcing Harry to witness atrocities which inevitably ended in gruesome death.

Harry felt he was slowly going insane. He barely slept, and had to cast a Silencing Charm on his curtains every night before he fell asleep, because his screams woke his roommates, while nothing could wake Harry in the midst of a vision…

Currently, Harry sat clustered with Ron and Hermione in the corner of the Gryffindor common room, near the fire. Most of the other Gryffindors also sat secluded in the common room, in tight groups, shoulder-to-shoulder. Everyone looked so young. Tears streamed down some of the girls' faces…

Harry could see at least one copy of the Daily Prophet, with its headline screaming death and destruction, in the middle of each group of students. A rustling of paper brought Harry's attention back to his immediate surroundings. He whipped his head around to stare at the source of the noise. Hermione had clutched the Daily Prophet tightly, slowly wringing the paper with an almost alarming desperation.

Unobtrusively, Harry kicked Ron in the shins, using a coffee table to conceal his actions. Ron gaped at Harry with indignation, rubbing his leg angrily. Harry caught Ron's eye, and glanced meaningfully at Hermione, who still stared at the paper. Ron's expression gentled as he looked at Hermione, and he silently mouthed, "Thanks," to Harry, before levering himself out of his chair.

"Er…why don't you let me hold the paper?" Ron asked, gently uncurling Hermione's tight grip from around the Daily Prophet.

Hermione smiled up at Ron with an expression so tender it made Harry glance away in embarrassment, feeling like an intruder. _Would he live long enough to find that type of love, of affection… _Harry quickly shoved the thought from his mind. He did not like to think about the potentially fatal nature of his near future.

Dimly, Harry heard Trelawny's voice, "Neither can live while the other survives…" Harry shook his head. It must be the heat of the fireplace, coupled with the panic of the morning, driving him barmy. Harry normally was never this sentimental.

Ron now had the paper, his freckled arm wrapped around Hermione, his lips moving silently as he read the main article once again. They had all read the paper about the attack, could quote sections verbatim, yet still the morbid newsprint beckoned them to explore the story of the attack, again and again and again. Harry felt the constant presence of death weighing on him, choking, suffocating. He was burning, the flames licking him all around, the common room growing eerily indistinct…

A loud sob, from a group of Seventh Year girls, shattered the oppressive silence of the common room. Harry flinched. Hermione looked at him strangely, the first time she had voluntarily made eye-contact with anyone for several minutes, but mercifully did not say anything.

Harry noticed Ron staring vaguely at the source of the now muffled crying, which Harry almost thought were worse than the loud sobs. The sense of defeat evident in the quiet screamed of fear. Ron shook his head slowly, as though trying to dislodge water from his ears after swimming. "Did anyone notice that none of the bloody Slytherins' families died in the attack?" Ron asked Harry and Hermione quietly, glancing warily over his shoulder, as though making certain he wasn't overheard.

Harry stared at the group of crying Seventh Year girls Ron was now steadfastly refusing to look at. "Yeah, I saw," Harry said harshly, remembering McGonagall escorting Katie Bell from the Great Hall during breakfast, just before the owl post had arrived, and the screaming had begun. Katie's parents had lived in Tinworth, some of her friends had explained, with shocked, pale faces, just after breakfast to the common room at large. Flitwick and Sprout both had ushered students out beforehand, as well. The Slytherins though, all had sat there undisturbed, eating quietly, seemingly unaffected by the news… Until Harry had looked over mere minutes later, and seen the entire Slytherin table mysteriously empty of students.

The fire flickered in the grate.

"Ron, Harry!" Hermione whispered in a shocked voice. "It sounds like you wish some of the Slytherins had lost their families!" Hermione's angry gaze pinned Harry to his chair. He didn't hate anyone at Hogwarts enough to want them or their families dead – Malfoy's blood-smeared face, mouth curled in a feral grin, flashed through Harry's mind. _Did he? _

"We didn't mean it like that, eh, Harry?" Ron hastened to assure Hermione, glancing at Harry, silently pleading for assistance.

"We're not _Voldemort_," Harry spat the name, harsher than he intended, but still not caring when Ron flinched violently.

"I know." Hermione looked stung, and Harry immediately regretted his vehemence.

"Sorry," Harry said, tiredly running his hand through his hair. "I'm a bit on edge, what with the attacks, and the visions." Beside him, Ron suddenly looked sick, and Hermione was staring at Harry with tears in her eyes.

"You dream, all that?" Ron gestured toward the paper, still looking green.

"Oh, Harry!" Hermione hugged Harry fiercely. "I had completely forgotten – what with the attacks – and the hostility – your connection to Vold…Voldemort," Hermione lowered her voice considerably at the last part, pulling away from Harry. Harry told himself he was not hurt by the small rejection. "You should go up to see Madam Pomphrey, ask for Dreamless Sleep Potion."

Harry shook his head. "It's too addictive," he said, staring down at hands, as he fingered a tear in the red and gold embroidery of his armchair. He wished Ron and Hermione would stop asking him questions.

"Yes, but only if you take it for more than five subsequent nights," Hermione continued, her voice eager.

Ron looked at Harry. "The visions …they're more than five nights, aren't they, mate?" Ron asked with rare shrewdness. Harry nodded, his eyes following the dance of the orange and yellow flames in the fireplace. Thankfully, his friends did not continue. Harry smiled wanly. Ron probably was having to physically restrain Hermione from asking another question.

In the following silence, the flicker of the flames seemed to expand, consuming Harry's vision and awareness. He could see vague shapes, people, moving in the flames, and hear sounds Harry somehow knew were not coming from the Gryffindor common room.

Distantly, Harry listened to Hermione ask quietly, as though she did not want to be overheard, "Why does everyone hate the Slytherins so much? It seems so meaningless, to be this concerned with a school rivalry right now." Harry struggled to focus on Ron's whispered response, grateful for the distraction from the heat and the flames.

"I don't know if you can understand," Ron began hesitantly, afraid, Harry guessed of offending Hermione. "You and Harry didn't grow up here, in the wizarding world, so I guess you wouldn't have heard the stories." Harry saw Hermione lean forward with interest, closer to Ron, who looked flustered by her attentions.

"There's a reason no decent wizard wants to go into Slytherin." Ron's voice assumed a practiced rhythm, as though he had both heard and told this story many times before. "Slytherins are dark wizards – really dark. Witchcraft and blood sacrifices dark. That's why Slytherin families like the Malfoys -" both Harry and Ron scowled, "- care so much about blood purity – they use blood to strengthen their spells. Say pureblood is the best for the magic. Rest of the wizarding world knows that's a load of prejudiced rubbish. Blood's blood."

_Rivulets of blood pooling on the floor, reflecting the orange flames._

Harry's scar throbbed painfully.

Ron sighed, clearly unhappy with his explanation. "Its like – " he snapped his fingers absently. "Salazar Slytherin was one of the worst. That's why the other Founders drove him out of Hogwarts."

Hermione shook her head. "But, Hogwarts, A History, says Salazar Slytherin left voluntarily after disagreeing with the Founders about which students should attend Hogwarts."

"That's rubbish, too." Harry thought Hermione looked insulted by Ron's statement. Ron must have noticed, too, because he quickly continued. "Slytherin didn't just _disagree, _he was caught by Gryffindor performing a blood ritual using a student's blood." Hermione looked appalled. Harry felt vaguely sick, but still couldn't concentrate or think.

_A child screamed, and the flames leapt higher, and higher…_

Harry fell out of his armchair, clutching his forehead, but all he could feel was the searing heat of the fire, only smelled the stink of charred flesh. He couldn't see, couldn't breath.

A pair of strong arms yanked Harry to his feet. He swayed, crying out as another sharp pain lanced though his head. "We have to get him to the Hospital Wing," an indistinct female voice said, panic infusing her tone.

"C'mon," another voice grunted. The pressure of the arms around Harry's chest increased, as someone half-carried, half-dragged Harry away. Harry felt the blaze, heard the screams. The very air was choking him, and there were people all round, pressing in around him. He clutched tighter at his forehead. Something sticky leaked through his fingers, even as it dripped down his face.

"Is he alright?"

"_Move_ already!"

"All you lot, clear a path!"

A rush of cool air swept over him, and the pain in Harry's forehead subsided slightly. He staggered, but was caught before he fell. Someone gently lowered Harry onto the floor. He sat there, on the cold, rough floor, breathing harshly, his head between his knees.

"Harry, mate, you all right?" Ron's voice sounded curiously far away.

Harry waited for the nausea to subside slightly before he replied. "I'm fine," Harry muttered, lifting his head to look at his two friends. "Thanks."

Hermione gasped. "Harry, your face! Its covered in blood."

"I'm fine!" Harry said, a bit more forcefully. "I'll just wait a bit, and the bleeding'll stop. Honestly, I'm fine."

"You look a right mess," Ron said, wrinkling his forehead.

Hermione surveyed Harry's face, and then took out her wand. "Hold still." She pointed her wand at Harry's forehead, saying, "_Tergeo," _siphoning the blood off Harry's face.

"Thanks." Harry smiled grimly. _Tergeo_ was fast becoming one of his favorite spells.

Hermione frowned slightly. "We're still taking you to the Hospital Wing, even if I have to levitate you all the way there." She waved her wand bossily in front of Harry's face, cutting off any protests he might have made.

"I'll walk." Harry braced his arms against the wall, struggling to lever himself up into a standing position.

Ron strode over to Harry. "Hold up, mate," Ron said, grabbing Harry's arm, pulling him to his feet. Harry staggered slightly, but remained standing. Immediately, he tried to go back into the Gryffindor Tower, but Ron caught his shoulder before he walked two steps. "Bloody hell, Harry, we're taking you to Pomphrey. Your scar's still bleeding, and you look like shite."

"You've said," Harry glowered, but walked toward the Hospital Wing without further complaint. He knew when to pick his battles.

--

Draco heard Baddock and Pritchard before he, Vince, and Greg had even rounded the corner of the corridor leading to McGonagall's Transfiguration classrooms.

"Fuck off, why don't you?" Baddock's angry voice rang loudly in Draco's ears, and he accelerated his pace. Vince and Greg, though they could not see a reason for the haste, not possessing Draco's improved hearing, quickened their pace to match Draco's footsteps. This was why Draco had brought Vince and Greg to search for the two missing Slytherins following the Daily Prophet's report on the Tinworth attacks. He did not particularly care about Vince and Greg's intelligence, or admittedly lack-thereof, because the two had other, more useful, qualities. Vince and Greg dueled viciously, with a ruthlessness and brute strength few could emulate, or defend against. More importantly, Draco trusted Vince and Greg as much as a Malfoy ever trusted anyone, something he could say about very few people in his life.

Vince and Greg's heavy plodding echoed off the unusually empty stone corridor, at odds with Draco's own aristocratic step. He did not make any moves to silence their approach. Draco wanted the arseholes ahead to know what a grave mistake they had made, threatening his Slytherins.

They rounded the corner.

Baddock and Pritchard stood, their backs against a wall, a semi-circle composed of five Seventh Year Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws ringed around them. All had their wands out, but Baddock, a Fourth Year, and Pritchard, a Third Year, looked distinctly vulnerable despite the fierce glares on their faces, standing at least a head shorter than those surrounding them.

Eddie Carmichael, one of the Ravenclaws, stepped closer to Baddock, jabbing his wand in the younger boy's face. "Do you lot really think you're so innocent?" Carmichael laughed unpleasantly, a malevolent smile twisting his plain features. Draco increased his pace, unsheathing his wand in one swift movement. "You Slytherins are all the same, dark as they come. You probably laughed when you heard Goldstein's parents died." Carmichael's voice thrummed with rage.

"Not that Goldstein didn't deserve it," Draco drawled. The Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs turned to look at the three Sixth Year Slytherins approaching, identical looks of dumb shock on their faces. Baddock and Pritchard smirked. "Really, I knew Goldstein was a half-blood, but consorting with muggles…" Draco paused five feet from the group, Vince and Greg flanking him. "How much lower into the human cesspool can you sink? The Dark Lord did the wizarding world a favor, killing filth like that," he sneered. Beside him, Vince and Greg snickered. The Ravenclaws paled in anger.

"You fucking bastard, Malfoy," Carmichael spat. "I bet your precious Daddy was there during the attack. We all know how much dark wizards like to spill blood; like animals, the lot of you. Don't worry; he'll be back in Azkaban soon. If you're lucky, they'll put you in the cell next to him."

Draco's eyes flashed. He could feel his fangs lengthen in response to the threat, and he turned to the still-silent Hufflepuffs glaring at him. "Still crying over pretty boy Diggory? I'm certain you Hufflepuffs will find someone else to make a martyr of soon." He meant for the comment to wound, intentionally made his words as cruel as possible. It was well known the Hufflepuffs had established a type of makeshift shrine to Cedric Diggory in their common room. Pathetic. Diggory's death hadn't even served any type of usefulness. Hufflepuffs would mourn the demise of an insect.

"_Confringo!" _Carmichael sent the Blasting Curse straight at Draco, who blocked it easily with a wave of his wand, sending the spell streaking into the wall, which shattered, sending shards of stone flying at the corridor's occupants.

Draco smiled maliciously. "I was waiting for someone cast the first spell." His attackers glanced at each other in alarm. Draco's smile widened, becoming not so much an expression, as a razor slash cutting across his face, promising violence. "_Flagrate!" _A red stream of fire shot out of his wand, blazing across his attackers' faces. He used the flame like a sword, burning fiery slashes onto Carmichael's skin.

Carmichael screamed, a high-pitched sound which ignited Draco's blood rage. Vince and Greg both sent their own variations of an Expulso Hex at the Hufflepuffs, a spell which exploded violently upon contact with a person. The spells shattered someone's arm. Baddock and Pritchard used the chaos to try to sneak away behind Draco, Vince, and Greg, casting the Furnunculus Curse at the Ravenclaws as they ran.

Carmichael saw the two smaller Slytherins retreating, and took the opportunity to cast "_Diffindo!" _sending the Cutting Hex hurling at the undefended Baddock and Pritchard. The hex hit true, slashing deep into their arms, causing both Baddock and Pritchard to drop their wands as blood flowed down their forearms.

Draco _smelt_ the blood pooling on the ground, and turned from a duel with a Hufflepuff to see his two younger Slytherins falling to the ground, blood mingling with their hair.

"You're going to pay, Carmichael," Draco hissed, his eyes glowing molten silver. He cast a shield spell, blocking off the section of the corridor, effectively protecting all his Slytherins. Then, with a flick of his wrist, Draco turned the shield spell opaque, ensuring that none of the Hufflepuffs or Ravenclaws could see what he did next.

Draco motioned for Vince and Greg to pick up Baddock and Pritchard. They lifted the two younger boys off the ground with no apparent effort, stooping down to grab their dropped wands from the pools of blood.

Draco strode over to Baddock, reverently touching his fingers to the blood spilling from the younger boy's arm. "I ask your permission," Draco intoned ceremoniously, making certain Baddock knew what Draco was asking. The spell Draco wanted to use did not work nearly as well if the blood was not freely given. Baddock nodded, his face ashen but his expression vicious.

Permission given, Draco smiled fiercely at Baddock, before turning back to the group of Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, who still had their wands out, pointed at Draco's shield spell. He turned to Vince and Greg. "Bring Baddock and Pritchard to Pansy. She's good with Healing spells. I don't trust Pomphrey." They nodded, carrying Baddock and Pritchard away down the corridor.

In one swift movement, Draco collapsed the shield spell, the searing light created by the spell fragmenting blinding the others.

The painful diversion provided the opportunity Draco needed. Draco concentrated on the blood he could feel on his fingertips, feeling the strength of Baddock's sacrifice. He drew a symbol in the air, a circle segmented by a curved line, the blood on his fingers dripping onto the floor as Draco cast. "_Duro!" _he yelled, slashing his wand at his attackers in the corridor.

The Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs screamed as their legs turned painfully to stone. Draco intentionally stopped the spell before the Transformation spread further than their legs.

Then, just to be certain Draco banished their wands.

Draco surveyed his victims, who stood immobile in the middle of the corridor, looks of terror on their faces. "You _fucking_ arseholes. Although, I suppose attacking the younger students is the only way you pathetic Mudbloods could ever win a proper duel." Draco twirled his wand idly between his fingers, a cruel smirk on his face. "I'm going to make you sorry you ever were born."

"_Haud aer anhelo!" _Transparent circles appeared around Carmichael and his friends' heads. Carmichael was the first to realize the effect of the spell. He started to convulse, his hands desperately clawing at the bubble around his head.

Draco watched them struggle calmly. The Haud Aer Curse was one of his personal favorites. A spell similar to the Bubble-Head Charm, the Haud Aer, or _No Air, _Curse formed a sphere without any breathable air around its victim's head, effectively suffocating the victim of the curse.

"Malfoy, what the fuck are you - _Finite Incantatem!" _A voice cried out from behind Draco. The bubbles disappeared with a loud _Pop! _from around Carmichael and the others, and they breathed in the fresh air gratefully.

Draco stiffened, turning around. The slight tingling in his fangs informed Draco as to who had interrupted his revenge. "You don't want to get involved with this, Potter," he warned.

--

Harry, Hermione, and Ron made slow progress down the corridors, in part due to Harry's frequent attempts to assure them he did not need to go to the Hospital Wing.

"Give it up," Ron advised Harry wisely after another protest, as the other boy inched down the corridor, one hand positioned on the wall for support.

Harry pushed himself off the wall. "I'm fine, see?" He walked forward three steps, and promptly stumbled as his vision blurred.

"Ron!" Hermione said. "Stop letting him do that. He'll injure himself further."

Ron shrugged apologetically at Harry. "Guess you're going to see Pomphrey, mate."

They rounded the corner leading to the Transfiguration classrooms. Hermione had vetoed any of the shortcuts leading to the Hospital Wing, claiming most of the passages far too unsafe for Harry to travel in his current condition.

At first, Harry thought the figures further down the corridor were one of McGonagall's Transfiguration experiments, like the life-size chess board Ron defeated in First Year. Then, he realized their movements were too jerky, lacking the finesse all of McGonagall's projects exhibited. Clear spheres, reminiscent of what the Bubble Head Charm produced, obscured the five figures' faces.

Odder still, Malfoy, stood, unmoving, in front of the figures, his pale blonde hair shining like a beacon despite the distance, his back to Harry, Ron and Hermione.

Harry began to run down the corridor. He ignored his ailments, the blood loss, the headaches, the distortion of the objects around him.

His shoes slapped loudly on the stone, his black robe streaming behind him as he ran.

As he came closer, Harry realized with a jolt of alarm that he recognized some of moving figures. The boy on the far right was Eddie Carmichael, a Ravenclaw who had been a member of Dumbledore's Army last year. One of the boys sporting a yellow and black tie was one of Cho Chang's friends; Harry remembered being brutally jealous of his closeness with Cho in Fourth Year.

Merely five meters away now, Harry saw the students were screaming silently, their lips blue from lack of oxygen. They tore at the bubbles around their heads with raw and bleeding fingertips. Malfoy still stood there silently, observing the students with a calm detachment that bordered on psychotic.

Malfoy looked at the torture with the satisfaction of a king gazing out over his domain.

"Malfoy, what the fuck are you –" Harry realized the students were still suffocating. "_Finite Incantatem!" _

The spheres around the trapped students' heads broke apart. The Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff students gasped for air, bending over, panting. One Hufflepuff boy, Cho Chang's friend, threw up, the foul stench permeating the corridor, but still none of the students Harry had freed moved from where they stood.

"You don't want to get involved with this, Potter," said Malfoy angrily, not even turning to look at Harry before he spoke.

"You almost killed them!" Harry yelled, gesturing angrily at Malfoy's victims.

Harry heard footsteps jogging up behind them. He realized his encounter with Malfoy so far had taken less than fifteen seconds, and Ron and Hermione, not initially knowing the reason for Harry's haste, had traveled more slowly.

"Harry, what happened – " Hermione stopped near Harry, gazing at the scene in front of her in horror.

"Malfoy, you sodding fuck, what dark magic did you use on them?" Ron yelled, pulling out his wand, pointing it at Malfoy with shaking hands. Ron was staring at the Seventh Years in the middle of the corridor. Harry followed Ron's gaze, who stared at Eddie Carmichael with horrified eyes.

All of the Seventh Year Ravenclaw and Hufflepuffs Malfoy had attempted to suffocate only seconds earlier stood planted to the floor, their legs turned to stone. Stiff, cold, lifeless; the grey stone perversely imitated the shape of the boys' legs, the same cruel way a Hinkypunk's lantern mimicked safety before luring travelers to their deaths. Harry had not noticed the transformation, too preoccupied with stopping Carmichael and his friends from asphyxiating.

Harry, his vibrant green eyes cold, pointed his wand at Malfoy. "Undo the transformation _now_, Malfoy." Hermione ran over and knelt next to Carmichael, deftly casting counter-curse after counter-curse. Her soft whispering filled the air. Soft and bright lights, composed of brilliant colors, filled the corridor, but to no avail. Carmichael and his friends still could not move.

"Self-righteous Gryffindor hypocrites," Malfoy spat. "Does it hurt your head, Potter, looking down at the rest of us from your pedestal?" Draco's lip curled derisively. "Not a question about why _they _attacked _me_, or why they cast _Diffindo _at a Slytherin Fourth and a Third Year."

"You Slytherins deserved it anyway," Ron glared, his anger as red as his hair. Sparks shot out of his wand at Malfoy, who sneered.

"Ron!" Hermione said, shocked.

Ron turned to Hermione, leaving Harry alone to guard Malfoy. "You don't understand, Hermione. I tried telling you …its…they're all murders and blood thieves. He probably cast _Diffindo _at the Slytherins himself, to steal their blood to cast the curse."

Unnoticed by Ron, Malfoy took out his wand. Harry tensed, but Malfoy merely raised his other hand, examining it aristocratically. Harry recoiled at the sight. Dark blood, an ugly, filthy red, covered his hand, small trails of dried gore streamed down Malfoy's wrist.

_Rivulets of blood trailed down the corpse's face, looking like bloody tears, except for the jagged wound, with black, festering edges, cutting across the dead man's forehead. _

"How pathetic. Gryffindor's Golden Boy, afraid of blood," Malfoy sneered at Harry's repulsion. Ron whipped around at Malfoy's voice, but the Slytherin had already, with a quick flick of his wand, spelled his blood-covered wrist clean.

A bolt of pain lanced through Harry's head. He screamed, sinking to his knees, clutching his head. "No no no no…" Harry whispered desperately. The corridor started to blur, until all he saw streaks of color; the crimson blood and a pale blur which might have been Malfoy's hair.

"Harry!" Hermione cried, but Harry continued sinking, deeper and deeper into the black recesses of his mind where Voldemort awaited him with a cold laugh.

Hogwarts ceased to exist.

--

The world resolved for Harry with a jolt of pain. He stood, in a body far taller than his own, looking out over hell. Bodies lined the walls, screaming, crying, bleeding. Yellow torches, blazing blue in their depths, produced a glaring light, but no evident heat. Blood pooled on the floor, running down the walls, shining black in the unnatural light. Two black-robed figures chained a body to the wall in front of Harry, who nodded at them coolly. "Thank you, Avery, Nott," Harry hissed, trapped in Voldemort's body.

"This wouldn't have been possible without the blood sacrifices you performed so _imaginatively_ in Tinworth." Too late, Harry remembered Voldemort had not actually participated in the attacks in Tinworth, just stood and smiled cruelly as the town burned and bled. The red fire had reflected in his crimson eyes.

Avery and Nott removed their hoods, and bowed deeply. Nott's black hair was as dark as his robes, but Avery; with his deceptively warm blue eyes, looked disturbingly kind; the type of cold-blooded murder who shared dinner with his next victims. Harry recognized them both from the jeering crowd who watched Voldemort try to murder a fourteen year old Harry in a graveyard after the Triwizard Tournament.

Voldemort/Harry raised his arms, a knife suddenly gleaming in his long pale fingers. The knife shone silver, decorated with intricate filigree and runic designs. It possessed a deadly type of beauty, the fatal grace embodied by the venomous black widow spider. The knife looked more for decoration than anything else, until Harry noticed the lethally sharp edges, and the dried blood which filled the grooves on the hilt.

Voldemort/Harry began to chant, the magic in the unfamiliar words rasping and stinging his throat. Avery and Nott hastily moved out of the way. A hazy buzz of magic filled Harry's ears. He could not remember the words seconds after he spoke, only the feeling, the _power_, in the spell.

The knife rose and fell into the man's chest, as Voldemort carved intricate patterns created of blood mingled with the man's sobs. A red glow of magic swirled hesitantly out of the man's body, lingering in the air for an instant. The man's body slumped, dead, in his chains. The Death Eaters stared at in awe.

Voldemort shouted the last word, a harsh, discordant syllable which resounded through the air. Identical patterns, dripping blood, appeared on Voldemort's exposed arms. The red glow disappeared into the cuts, healing them abruptly. A rush of magic shot through Voldemort/Harry's body.

"My lord," Nott breathed, kneeling. Avery, behind him, did the same.

"_You fucking psychotic arsehole!" _Harry yelled.

"_**You've outstayed your welcome, Harry," **_Voldemort hissed.

Suddenly, wave after wave of agony crashed through Harry's scar. Harry screamed, but could not tell if the sound resonated outside of his head, as well. He twisted, burrowing into the blackness of his mind, desperate to escape the pain. All around Harry, Voldemort laughed, a high-pitched, cruel sound.

--

Draco watched Potter writhe on the ground with unconcerned eyes. It would be the epitome of foolishness to interfere with the Dark Lord's plans for Potter. For a Slytherin, survival was paramount. Of course, that line of thinking depended on Draco being actually concerned about Potter's welfare. Outside of ensuring Potter stayed well enough to give Draco blood, Draco was perfectly happy to watch the other boy collapse on the floor in agony. When the Dark Lord finally killed Potter, Draco would merely find a new blood donor.

"Harry!" Granger cried out, kneeling next to Gryffindor's Golden Boy, her bushy brown hair almost obscuring Draco's view of Potter's flailing.

"Stand aside, Mudblood," Draco commented with a lazy smirk. "Some of us are enjoying the show."

The Weasel lunged at Draco, who stepped aside gracefully. The other boy fell to the floor with a _thud, _thereby displaying all the uncouth coarseness of the Weasley clan.

"Ron!" Granger said frantically, "You need to get McGonagall."

Weasley shook his head. "I'm not leaving you alone with _him_," he shot Draco an angry glare. Granger looked torn, glancing quickly between Potter and Weasley.

"Fine," she cried, sprinting down the corridor, presumably to fetch McGonagall, Pomphrey, and the rest of Potter's fan club.

Weasley glared once again at Draco, but turned back to Potter. "C'mon, Harry," he said. Potter screamed louder in anguish, clutching his forehead. Draco sneered. The slightest hint of pain, and Gryffindors collapsed like Hufflepuffs.

Draco turned back to his victims, who looked away from Potter to watch Draco with dread. Draco spoke the counter-curse to the Stone Curse in a low voice. Life returned to the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff boys' legs, and they scrambled backwards, away from Draco, as soon as they could move again. They ran away, clutching their blood-stained injuries, not even pausing to search for their wands. For the first time since the fight had begun, Draco focused on the tempting, alluring scent of blood filling the corridor. The only person he could drink from, though, lay on the floor behind him. If only Weasley was gone…

"Ahh!" The loud cry made Draco turn back to examine Potter once again. Small cuts appeared on the dark-haired boy's bare arms, exposed by his fall. Blood ran down Potter's arms, dripping onto the floor.

"Harry!" Weasley yelled, shaking Potter violently. The bloody wounds, formed by an invisible blade, traced together, connecting to form intricate patterns. With a shock, Draco recognized some of the symbols. Whatever spell was occurring, it was very dark indeed…

A subtle red light gleamed faintly about Potter's injuries. Draco doubted Weasley, lacking the superior eyesight Draco's vampire senses possessed, had noticed. The pooling blood made Draco's fangs extend. He could almost taste Potter's blood in his mouth.

"Mr. Weasley, move aside," McGonagall strode down the corridor, Granger trotting at her heels. Immediately, Draco receded into a darkened alcove behind a rusted suit of armor, hiding within a deep shadow. Weasley scuttled backwards to stand near Granger. McGonagall knelt near Potter, casting a variety of standard medical spells. Finally, she stood, shaking her head. "_Levicorpus_," McGonagall said, waving her wand upwards. Potter's body levitated off the ground, still dripping blood. At that instant, Potter woke, gasping loudly.

"Professor," he choked.

"Lay down, Mr. Potter," McGonagall commanded severely, her lips pressed into a thin white line. Potter's eyes scanned the corridor, his face pale, before obeying. The procession moved off down the corridor, Potter still floating through the air.

With a methodical thoroughness, Draco began to spell the corridor clean, removing all evidence of his fight with the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs. Finally, he uttered a special, though illegal, spell which removed all traces of dark magic from the caster's wand. Most of the curses he had used could land him in Azkaban.

Only then, once he had assured his innocence, Draco thought about what had occured. Just before Potter had lain back down, Draco had seen the Gryffindor's bright green eyes flash red.

lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll

A/N: So…I went to see the Twilight movie this weekend, and guess what? They had a _Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince_ preview!!! I'm so excited. It looks like this movie will be really, truly amazing. Plus, it features quite a bit of one of my favorite HP characters, Draco Malfoy, played by Tom Felton, who is _so_ hot!!!

Can't wait until June…for the movie, not my next update. Just thought I should clarify.


	9. Chapter Nine

**BLOOD DONOR **

Summary: A vampyric Draco Malfoy attacks Harry Potter at Kings Cross before the start of Sixth Year. Now, Harry must escape a deal made with his own personal demon while he prepares to face Voldemort again…but is Draco truly an enemy? HP/DM

Warnings: Slash. Violence, angst. AU after Order of the Phoenix.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.

Favorite Review(s): _Wafflansypus: _who said if I didn't update until June, I'd probably be lynched. I don't think I've ever been happy to receive a death threat before, so thanks for the great review, _Wafflansypus! _Alright, I'm going to break tradition, and mention another reviewer, too. _PlayfulSlyph, _your reviews always make me laugh, especially the most recent one, when you talked about Voldemort's "_jedi mind controlling powers." _Thanks to everyone for the wonderful reviews!

A/N: So I was faced with a rather crucial decision when writing this chapter. I could have given you a shorter chapter far sooner, or I could take longer, and include some very awesome Harry/Draco interactions (not slash yet, sorry). I must admit, I chose the second option. So sue me. Sorry for the delay, hope it was worth it!

llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll

Draco stood in the dank corridor which housed the entrance to the Slytherin dormitories. Not that the blank stretch of damp stone appeared any different from the other corridors contained in the labyrinth which was Hogwart's dungeons. Slytherin was not like the other Houses, idiotically advertising their locations with talking portraits mounted on the walls. That immense lack of subtlety was gravely dangerous, under the wrong circumstances. In fact, the only detail which identified the entrance to the Slytherin dormitories was a small snake, carved into the corner of one of the stone blocks. The figure itself was only distinguishable because of the trickle of water which had seeped into the carving, staining it a slightly darker grey than the surrounding stone.

With a subtle wave of his wand, Draco brought the hazy nexus of wards protecting the Slytherin House entrance into view. He critically examined the complex knot of intertwining chains, formed of multi-colored strands of magic. Any mistake in the casting could allow members of the other Houses, like that prejudiced bastard Carmichael, to attack his House. Draco smirked. Not that Carmichael would be able to do much other than lay in a bed in the Hospital Wing for at least a week. If Potter hadn't interfered, Carmichael and the others would have suffered far more.

Draco looked for the password constructed into the wards. He needed to see how Baddock and Pritchard were faring, so he would know whether or not to create more complex healing charms and potions. First, though, he had to navigate through the maze of spells, taking special care not to activate any of the hexes or curses some of the Slytherins had seen fit to include in the wards. Yes, the wards were beautiful, glowing chains of shimmering light reflecting softly in to the air. Appearances could be deceiving, however. The devil was considered infinitely charming, after all, and one of curses severed a person's hands if they attempted to physically force the door open.

Slytherins were a ruthless breed.

Two minutes later, Draco identified the entrance he had instructed Pansy to spell into the wards for him. He removed a small, dangerously sharp, silver knife from his pocket, the Malfoy crest carved with painstaking care into the handle. The corridor's dim light glared off the metal, as he raised the blade up to caress the fingers of his left hand. For a single second, Draco saw his reflection in the blade, stormy eyes surrounded by razor-edged features, imitated almost perfectly by the burnished metal. Then, though, the image was lost in a flood of red, as Draco slashed the knife across the top of two of his fingers. Blood welled up from the shallow cuts, flowing over the knife blade and down his hand.

He smeared the blood on the small snake carved into the stone. The carving slowly turned a violent crimson, as though the wall itself was bleeding.

Draco spoke the password: "Contra mundum." The glow of the wards vanished abruptly, leaving the corridor immersed by a blackness which seemed far darker than before. A large slab of stone swung inwards, revealing the Slytherin Common Room.

Absently, Draco pulled a pristine white handkerchief from his pocket, using it to wipe the blood dripping slowly from the cut on his fingers. He strode inside, and walked over to Theodore Nott, who was reclining on one of the couches with a weighty book.

"Malfoy," Nott, his black eyes thoughtful, nodded at Draco. "Pansy's waiting for you in the Fourth Year boy's dormitory. Fair warning – she seemed a bit upset," Nott smiled unkindly. Draco wondered exactly who Pansy had cursed in his absence.

He wandered down the maze of passageways, arriving in the younger boys' dormitory. Draco walked inside, bathed in shadow, his polished shoes ringing on the stone floor. A cluster of Slytherin boys, wearing rumpled jumpers and dress pants, stood arrayed against the far wall. They observed the events in the far corner of the room with glowers and muted whispers. Only Draco's entrance interrupted their single-minded concentration.

As one, the boys leveled their wands at Draco, lowering them only when he strode into a patch of light. The light caressed his features, making his skin appear supernaturally pale, his eyes haunted and cruel. Malfoys were renowned for their dangerous beauty, along with other, less pleasant distinctions.

Draco glared at the younger boys. None of them looked even slightly apologetic; most still had their wands pointed subtly in Draco's direction.

He ignored them, mostly, as much as it was possible for a Slytherin to ignore seven wands pointed at his back. Unconsciously, though, Draco cataloged every suspicious movement, noting every slight shift in body position, every syllable which could signify the beginning of a spell.

Draco walked over to the two beds resting against the walls opposite the door. Even ten meters away, he could smell the coppery tang of blood. He had been correct in assuming Pansy would not trust the exposure of the Common Room to heal Baddock and Pritchard. For the few minutes she would need to cast the healing spells, Pansy would be completely helpless, vulnerable to all attacks. As it were, even here, in the isolated dormitory, Pansy had bullied Vince and Greg into guarding her as she worked.

Pansy's tall body, dressed in a tiny black skirt, simple green shirt, and sturdy leather boots, bent over one of the boys lying prone on the bed. Baddock, his light brown hair spread over the dark bed sheets, gritted his teeth as Pansy spelled. Her wand traced complex patterns over Baddock's wounds, targeting the areas where an ugly red stained his clothes and skin. Vince and Greg stood, immobile as mountains, on either side of her, facing the rest of the dormitory with steely expressions. Their features relaxed slightly as Draco approached, and they stepped aside to allow him access to Pansy.

A blue glow lit Pansy's face, simultaneously gentling and darkening her features. Pansy's face was not classically beautiful, though her curved body did sveltely adhere to the conventional standards of form.

The light created an otherworldly effect, making her look both deceptively fey and harshly feral.

She chanted the healing spell, over and over, shaking with exertion. Draco positioned his hands on her shoulders, his fingers gripping both Pansy's shirt and skin indiscriminately, physically holding her upright.

Draco could smell the dried blood on Pansy's finger, marking where she had loaned her blood to strengthen the spell. He dug his fingers into Pansy's shoulders, trying to stop his fangs from extending. He could hear her heartbeat…

Pansy stopped speaking, her fluid chanting abruptly ceased. In the resulting silence, which sang almost louder than the spell, she stepped subtly away from Draco, glaring at him harshly. Baddock's blood stained the front of her shirt almost black. Too late, Draco remembered his promise to keep his distance until he drank blood again.

Smoothly, Draco stepped away from Pansy, instead gazing at Baddock, who lay panting from pain on the bed. Sweat clung to the younger boy's forehead, and his eyes appeared heavy, as though Baddock barely possessed the strength to stay awake, glaring at the Slytherins compiled around his bed. Dark magic was effective, but focused solely on healing, not relieving pain, and no Slytherin liked to be seen in a moment of weakness. Draco lifted the edge of Baddock's gore-encrusted sleeve, the cloth more stiff than pliable, away from his arm, relieved when no wound was revealed.

"I wanted to heal Baddock's injury first. It was the more serious of the two," Pansy critically examined the area where the cut had been. She swayed slightly, her dark hair matted with sweat. Draco gestured to Vince, who stood behind her, and the heavily-muscled boy steadied Pansy, looking at Draco with confusion. He nodded Vince his gratitude without further explanation. It would be beyond foolish to explain the exact reasoning behind why Pansy did not want Draco to touch her.

Draco regarded Pansy with emotionless eyes. She leaned wearily against a bed post now, her eyeliner smeared, the long line of her throat exposed, a vein in her jugular beating invitingly. The girl was testing him in the coarsest way possible, checking if Draco had his basest instincts controlled.

Pritchard shifted on the bed, grasping his arm tighter. A fresh wave of blood seeped onto the comforter. Surrounded by all the muted green and black, the crimson red looked chillingly garish, Pritchard himself resembling a broken doll.

Draco glanced at Pansy. He thought she could handle the strain of another healing, although the alternative, not healing Pritchard, was not a viable option. As if sensing his thoughts, Pansy wearily levered herself up, moving over to Pritchard's bed.

"Get the rest of them out of here," she snapped, glaring at the boys in the corner. Greg herded the Fourth Years out of the dormitory. Draco knew Greg would not even have to use magic to convince the younger boys to leave the room – Greg easily could lift and throw them out. They hastened out before Greg's bulk, each at least two heads shorter, and of far smaller stature than the Sixth Year boy.

"Step back," Pansy instructed harshly, her breathe still slightly uneven. Without a word, Draco moved away. The last healing had sapped her strength, and Pansy did not have much practice with healing spells, anyway. Any distraction could redirect the flow of magic, away from Pritchard, who desperately needed the help.

Pansy positioned herself in front of Pritchard. "_Sectum," _she whispered. A small drop of blood leaked out of a cut on her forefinger. She let three drops fall on the tip of her wand, where they stayed, glowing like a small rubies. "_Purgo vigoratus resarcio," _she said, waving her wand intricately. A blue glow trailed through the air like fire, following her wand's path, forming beautiful, though strangely eerie, shapes. "_Purgo vigoratus resarcio, Purgo vigoratus resarcio_," she chanted the spell, again and again.

A slight breeze tousled Draco's hair. Pansy's voice grew less sibilant, becoming far harsher and deeper. Lightning crackled in her chant. This immense feeling of _power, _this was why other wizards hated Draco's kind so ferociously. They feared the strength imbued in their spells.

The blue glow seeped into Pritchard's wounds. Finally, the light faded, leaving the room far darker than before, and with the darkness came the distinct sense of something missing, something powerful which hinted and allured, beckoning.

Pansy stopped chanting, and wearily lowered her wand.

Without a sound, Pansy fell. She crumpled awkwardly, every limb collapsing strangely as the strength fled her body. Draco, his eyesight not affected by the sudden gloom, caught her before she hit the ground. Pansy felt surprisingly warm in Draco's arms. Her dark brown hair, snarled from sweat and exertion, tangled in his fingers.

"Make certain Baddock and Pritchard receive the correct potions," Draco said to Vince and Greg in a low voice. He held Pansy with one arm, and dug awkwardly through his pocket, tossing them the healing potions he had gathered on his way to see Baddock and Pritchard. They caught the potions, and nodded in unison.

Pansy shifted uneasily in Draco's hold.

Draco carried Pansy back to her Prefect's room, and gently lowered her onto the bed. The lights blazed with a glaring brightness, but with a flick of his wand, Draco darkened the room. Suddenly, he felt unbearably weary, and unbearably _thirsty. _He looked at Pansy, lying undefended on her bed, somehow _smaller _than she was when awake just minutes before, with blue magic gleaming in her eyes. Her expression was exhausted even in unconsciousness.

Draco wanted blood, needed to quench the thirst burning his throat…He moved closer to Pansy, his expression predatory. She moved slightly, rumpling the bedcovers.

"_Lumos!" _A bright light exploded directly in front of Draco's eyes. Something hard rapped him on the arm, and a feeling of intense cold spread through Draco's body. His extremities succumbed first, the extreme cold rendering him immobile. He was lucky, though. Pansy was allowing him to breathe.

"Fuck, Draco!" Pansy seethed, her eyes narrowed dangerously. "Tell me one reason why I shouldn't announce your _affliction," _Pansy laughed cruelly, "To the Common Room right now."

Draco glared at Pansy. She knew full well her Freezing Charm prevented him from speaking. _Crack! _She hit him with her wand again, deliberately hard. The cold receded from Draco's neck and head.

"Damn it, Pansy, I wouldn't have bitten you," Draco said with icy disdain. He lifted his head arrogantly, looking down at the shorter girl with unreadable eyes.

Pansy glared. She looked frighteningly fey, her hair snarled, smudged kohl blackening the area around her eyes. Pansy walked over to Draco, and grasped his right wrist, twisting it towards the light. Her long nails, polished to perfection, dug mercilessly into his skin.

The harsh glow of the Lumos Charm made the Binding Pact's silver mark unmistakable. Draco cursed inwardly. So Pansy had noticed the mark just before he had exited the Common Room earlier. Draco had hoped, but not really believed, that the panic surrounding Baddock and Pritchard's disappearance had unsettled Pansy enough to make her careless. Slytherins did not survive, though, by ignoring crucial details.

"How extraordinarily _idiotic,"_ she hissed. "Is _this_," she lifted Draco's wrist, as he still could not move, "why you haven't had any blood? And don't lie; you're not thinking rationally – using dark magic in Hogwarts, of all places! You know the severity of the consequences, especially now! And, if that wasn't damning enough, you don't eat, avoid any sort of bright light, and look like a fucking _Inferius_ walking through the corridors."

Draco did not bother responding. Pansy's heartbeat resounded in his ears, a dull sloshing of blood which should have disgusted Draco, but instead was almost excruciatingly tempting. At this moment, Pansy was extremely lucky she had Draco restrained so completely. Of course, the exact phrasing of the Binding Pact made it impossible for Draco to drink the blood of anyone but Potter, but at the moment, not much prevented Draco from ripping into someone's throat, just to taste a hint of blood.

"Who exactly did you make your blood donor?" Pansy asked, her steely voice tempered slightly.

"It doesn't concern you."

Pansy glared. "I'm not the only one who's noticed, you know. People aren't as blindly stupid as you'd like to believe. Potter's pet Mudblood figured out the truth about the werewolf midway through our _Third _Year."

Draco stiffened, clenching his jaw in a rare display of emotion. "I'll be fine," he said coolly.

"Fine," Pansy spat, her back straight, but something shattered lurked in her expression. "If you don't figure this out, _quickly_, I'll make certain you can't endanger any more Slytherins." Shame throbbed through Draco at Pansy's words, but even that wasn't painful enough to end his thirst.

She released the rest of the Freezing Spell on Draco. He moved quickly out the door, fighting every instinct screaming at him to take advantage of the warm blood right in front of him. _Crash! _Pansy slammed the solid stone door in his face. Draco could hear her put up multiple locking charms.

Draco fingered his wand. He could easily break through the door, especially knowing the exact incantations she had used…but he would not. Pansy deserved that respect, at least.

Draco walked back to his room, slamming the door shut and warding it tightly. With a flick of his wand, he extinguished the lights blazing in the corners of the room. A much appreciated blackness swathed the room. Draco laid his wand down, within easy reach, and sat wearily on his bed. He folded his knees to his chest, harshly clutching at his blonde hair to distract himself from the thirst burning his throat.

Hopefully, he would resolve the situation with Potter before his life deteriorated even further. More likely, though, the minutia of good in his life would twist and warp, defiling everything he loved until his life was nothing more than an endless litany of prejudice and hatred. He would be hunted like an animal and killed, abandoned and despised by his friends and family. A tear splashed onto the bedcovers as Draco began to cry.

--

A flurry of concerned movement greeted Harry's entrance to the Hospital Wing. "Put him down over there, Minerva," Madam Pomphrey instructed Professor McGonagall as she hurried by, clutching a vial of steaming orange liquid. McGonagall floated Harry onto a hospital bed, having steadfastly refused to allow him to walk the distance to the Hospital Wing after his collapse in the corridor. Only once Harry was safely confined on the sterile white starched sheets did McGonagall end the spell.

"I feel fine, Professor," Harry insisted, sitting upright. A wave of pain, like the tortuous slash of hot steel, overwhelmed him, and he fought to keep from crying out.

"Don't be ridiculous, Mr. Potter," McGonagall said stiffly.

"You were convulsing on the floor!" Hermione argued worriedly, standing next to Ron, opposite McGonagall. Madam Pomphrey appeared behind a white curtain, which served as an informal partition, dividing the room.

"It was bloody scary," Ron agreed. He glanced guiltily at McGonagall. "Sorry, Professor."

"I understand your concern for Mr. Potter might have overwhelmed your sense of propriety, Mr. Weasley," McGonagall said severely, though her expression was decidedly soft. "I will allow the lapse this once."

"Stand aside, you two" Madam Pomphrey rushed over, gesturing for Ron and Hermione to move. "I take it Mr. Potter was injured in the fight, as well?" Pomphrey addressed McGonagall, strong disapproval infusing her tone.

McGonagall glanced at the makeshift wall with understanding in her eyes. "This is the first I've heard of a fight. Miss Granger informed me that Potter had -" McGonagall lowered her voice, "-_collapsed_." Hermione looked ashamed with herself, as though she had committed a tragic sin by not disclosing information to a professor.

Harry recoiled slightly in the bed. He hated it when people discussed him as though he was not present in the room.

"I understand," Pomphrey said, pulling out her wand. She began to cast diagnostic spells on Harry. He stayed very still, knowing from prior experience that even the slightest movement could dramatically alter the test results, requiring the whole time-consuming experience to be repeated again.

"Excuse me?" a gruff voice interrupted. "May I speak to acting Headmistress Minerva McGonagall?" The question came from a formally-dressed man standing in the doorway of the Hospital Wing.

"Of course," McGonagall replied, striding over to the man, her dark robes flying behind her. She stopped near the man, who sported a wild mane of yellow hair, fading to grey, which cascaded over his expensive black robes. Glancing over at the other occupants of the Hospital Wing, they moved quickly out the door, out of earshot, before Ron and Hermione had even stopped fussing over Harry and turned curiously to look.

Pomphrey stopped for an instant to watch McGonagall and the man, before she turned back to Harry. "Just a few more tests."

"I'm fine!" Harry said forcefully, and climbed out of bed. The world spun unsteadily underneath his feet. Harry stumbled, feeling nauseous, and clutched onto the bed railing for stabilization.

"Harry!" Hermione said in a shocked voice, moving to help steady him.

"Er…maybe you should lie back down, mate," Ron said unhelpfully. "You look really green all of a sudden."

"For Merlin's sake, _lay down_, Mr. Potter!" Pomphrey said loudly, raising her wand threateningly. Harry complied with a grimace.

He turned to Ron and Hermione. "You two should get out of here. I don't think they're going to let me go tonight," Harry scowled, annoyance darkening his tone. "Really, I'll see you in the morning."

"You most assuredly are not leaving tonight in your condition," Madam Pomphrey agreed. She handed Harry a violently blue potion. Harry thought he could see chunks of what looked suspiciously like mud floating in the liquid.

Ron eyed the potion with wide-eyed disgust. "That looks really nasty," he shuddered. Hermione elbowed Ron in the ribs. "What was that for?" Ron asked her crossly. Hermione just rolled her eyes.

Harry grinned slightly at their antics. "Bottoms up." He took a gulp of the potion, and immediately gagged. It tasted like soured milk.

"Two more swallows," Pomphrey informed Harry severely as she checked his pulse. "Only five more minutes of visitation time, you two," she said to Ron and Hermione, bustling away through the curtain on the other side of the room.

"You really should leave," Harry told Ron and Hermione apologetically. "I'll be fine, honest."

Instead of responding, Hermione dug feverishly through her bag. "I knew I had these somewhere," she exclaimed, emerging triumphantly with two gold coins. She passed one over to Harry, who examined it curiously, keeping the vile smell emitting from the blue potion in his other hand at an arm's length.

"Oy, what about me?" Ron asked.

Hermione sighed. "Honestly, Ron, pay attention. It's not real, its one of the D.A. coins we used last year. I kept Harry's coin and another, just in case."

"In case of _what? _An invasion?" Ron shook his head in disbelief.

Hermione colored slightly, but ignored him. "I thought Harry could use it in case anything similar to what occurred in the corridor happens tonight." She glared at Ron, who smiled sheepishly.

"Oh," Ron said.

"Promise you'll use it if anything happens," Hermione demanded.

"Yeah, of course," Harry lied easily. He had no intention of putting his friends in harms way should he have another vision, especially as the visions were becoming more and more disturbingly realistic every night.

"Good luck with that," Ron pointed to the potion in Harry's hand as he and Hermione exited the Hospital Wing.

"Thanks a lot," Harry replied, a smile twitching on his lips, which faded abruptly as his friends disappeared from view.

"How bad have the dreams become?" Madam Pomphrey asked Harry concernedly, as soon as she had assured that Ron and Hermione really had left.

"They're fine," Harry replied shortly. Madam Pomphrey looked as though she did not even remotely believe him.

Mercifully, she only said: "Drink that." Harry grimaced, but did as she instructed. Fuck, the potion tasted foul.

Pomphrey cast a few more healing spells before stopping. "Your scar has stopped bleeding, though nothing I've done can be thanked for that," Pomphrey frowned slightly. "Truthfully, Mr. Potter, I'm more worried about the non-physical damage. The tests showed you suffer from severe sleep deprivation."

"They're just stupid nightmares," Harry muttered in embarrassment, looking down at the Galleon still clutched in his hand so he would not have to see the pity apparent in her eyes. How extremely pathetic, the Boy Who Lived afraid to fall asleep.

_Clang! _He dropped the Galleon on the floor. It fell with a metallic ring, almost melodic in its simplicity. Harry looked at the coin, gleaming gold on the floor, and seriously contemplated just leaving it there. With a groan, though, he bent down off his hospital bed to grab the Galleon, the sheets scratching roughly against his bare forearms. Black dots swam dizzily across his vision, but Harry continued moving. Before he made much progress, though, a callused hand picked up the coin, and handed it to Harry.

"Here you are, Mr. Potter," the man the hand belonged to said firmly, gazing at Harry curiously. A long white scar, barely visible, sliced not three centimeters away from the man's tawny right eye. Harry placed his age around fifty.

Professor McGonagall stood behind the man, looking furious, her lips compressed into a thin line.

"Thanks, but it seems a bit rude, that I don't know your name, too," Harry said bluntly. He was in no mood to be civil to someone else coming to gawk at the Boy Who Lived.

"My name is Rufus Scrimgeour," the man said stiffly, but withdrew his outstretched hand. McGonagall's lips twitched slightly.

Harry nodded. "The new Minister, I know."

Scrimgeour turned to McGonagall, standing stiffly behind him. "If you'll excuse us, Headmistress?" Underneath the query thrummed a hint of force, implying that the question required immediate compliance. McGonagall frowned slightly, but left the Hospital Wing. Scrimgeour watched her leave.

At least, Scrimgeour did not appear quite as incompetent as Fudge, a supposition revealed as fact when the Minister turned back to Harry and unexpectedly asked, "Been in a fight?" Harry raised an eyebrow. "Standard Auror training. I can see trace residues of offensive magic on you." Real curiosity infused Scrimgeour's voice, forcefully reminding Harry that a hardened Auror lurked within his stilted impersonation of a politician.

Harry smiled grimly. "You could say that." Fortunately, Scrimgeour did not pursue the topic.

"I thought it might interest you to know that the Ministry will be taking a more active-role in Hogwarts, considering Headmaster Dumbledore's habitual disappearances. "

"Like you did last year?" Memories of Dolores Umbridge's sadistic reign at Hogwarts flashed through Harry's mind. "Real bang up job, that was," he fumed.

"That is quite enough, Minister!" Madam Pomphrey interrupted loudly. "I will not have you jeopardizing the health of my patients."

Scrimgeour visibly struggled to remain civil. "Of course. How discourteous of me," he replied. The Minister's hands, decorated with silvery knife scars, clenched. "If you'll excuse me, I'll take my leave of Mr. Potter here. I'd like to talk to the other boys about the exact nature of magic used in this fight. The Ministry will no longer permit rampant dark magic to go unchecked. New laws have been passed - Azkaban awaits anyone convicted of dark magic use."

The Minister strode away toward the partition in the middle of the Hospital Wing. Harry visibly relaxed, slumping down in his bed. He had become more and more tense as his conversation with Scrimgeour progressed. Scrimgeour seemed infinitely harsher, stricter, and more intelligent than the genial bumbling which marked Fudge's reign. He appeared the perfect leader for a country plagued by the war with Voldemort. However, no matter how superior Scrimgeour appeared as a Minister, Harry personally knew how far removed an actual person could be from their media-produced persona.

An hour passed in never-ending tedium. Harry strained to hear Scrimgeour's conversations with Carmichael and the other Seventh Year boys barricaded behind the white curtain, but a Silencing Spell must have been utilized, for Harry heard nothing, not even the barest hint of a whisper.

The unchecked boredom granted Harry numerous amounts of time to remember exactly why he hated the Hospital Wing so much. The chocking smell of antiseptic and vile potions, the vague hush to the air, as though the occupants were on their death-beds, rather than merely sick. The white walls, white stone, white sheets, all stiff and starched and perfectly sterile and uninviting, until a body's fluids were spattered everywhere. Then, the white displayed the blood and gore to the fullest macabre effect, like a gallery showing of some sadistic artist's interpretation of suffering. And the memories, of pain and misfortune, endlessly compiled within the narrow white walls of the Hospital Wing, for very few ventured there for pleasurable reasons, until it seemed the sheer weight of the hurting could suffocate you with misery.

Finally, Scrimgeour strode out, unceremoniously pushing aside the curtain. The Minister nodded once at Harry on his way out of the Hospital Wing.

Almost as soon as Scrimgeour had departed, McGonagall returned, coming and sitting down near Harry. McGonagall meticulously arranged her robes around her before speaking. "As you know, Mr. Potter, Quidditch this year was canceled due to the increased threat from He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."

"Voldemort," Harry interrupted firmly. "Call him Voldemort." McGonagall continued as though Harry had not spoken.

"However, the melancholy atmosphere which has recently pervaded Hogwarts is quite unacceptable. The staff and I believe the students require a distraction from the conflict in the wizarding world." McGonagall spoke detachedly, as though imparting a lecture, but a tinge of anticipation colored her voice. "We are going to make the announcement tomorrow."

"Then why are you telling me now, Professor?" Harry kept his tone as polite as possible. His own excitement, though, was mounting rapidly.

"Because I would like you to be Gryffindor's Quidditch Captain." McGonagall smiled slightly, an expression which seemed oddly suited on her normally severe face. She extended her hand, within which lay the Quidditch captain's badge, bedecked in red and gold.

"Thank you, Professor." Harry grinned, and accepted the badge.

McGonagall rose to leave, but turned before she reached the door. "One more thing, Mr. Potter. I've grown rather accustomed to seeing the Quidditch trophy in my office every morning – I'd like to keep it there." McGonagall was definitely smiling as she left the Hospital Wing.

The badge, for all its weight, felt feather-light in Harry's callused hand. The pristinely smooth red and gold details gleamed as Harry placed it on the small table beside his bed. He fell asleep, feeling far happier than before, Quidditch strategies racing through his head.

--

"Oy, what took so long?" Ron asked when Harry finally clambered through the Gryffindor portrait hole at eleven the next morning.

"Pomphrey wanted to do a few more tests," Harry grimaced, sitting heavily down next to Ron. The nightmares had continued last night, vague flashes of screams and death. Not that he would ever tell Ron that.

Ron glanced warily around the Common Room, evidently searching for someone not present at the moment. He leaned towards Harry conspiratorially. "You better head back out, mate," Ron stage whispered, pointing towards the stairs leading to the girls' dormitories. "Hermione's already making homework schedules."

"I heard that, Ron!" Hermione said stiffly, walking over to Harry and Ron from the girls' staircase. Harry noticed the towering stack of books she carried with alarm.

He was far too tired for this now.

Ron looked nervously at Harry, both of them leery of Hermione's famous penchant for studying and homework, having personally experienced it far too often during their previous five years at Hogwarts. As one, they began slowly edging towards the door, but Hermione, brandishing her wand, stepped neatly in front of the portrait hole before they could reach it.

"I am not going to sit by and watch you both fail again!" Hermione said, a terrifying look of determination on her face. A priest trying to save two sinners. She guided Harry and Ron back towards the stack of books. "Now then, I thought we could start with McGonagall's essay…"

--

"I'm done!" Ron declared five hours later. He threw his quill down triumphantly. The remaining ink left in the quill splattered on his newly finished homework. "Sodding hell," Ron cursed, dabbing frantically at the ink.

Harry still scribbled furiously. "Just one more sentence – done."

Hermione looked up from where she sat, curled in an overstuffed armchair in front of the crackling fireplace like a contented cat. She was reading an appalling thick book entitled: _Secretive Superstitions: Forgotten Lore of the Wizarding World. _She had finished her own, far larger, amount of homework three hours prior.

"Oh good," Hermione said. "We can do Flitwick's charms paper next."

Harry glanced blankly at Ron, who shrugged with equal ignorance. Harry was almost certain they had not been given any Charms homework.

Hermione was still speaking. "…well, he hasn't actually assigned it yet, but I talked to him after class, and he said – "

"Oh no," Ron cut her off, shaking his head. "We've been doing homework all day. We are _not _doing homework that we haven't even been _given _yet." Ron snatched Hermione's charm book away. "We are going to sit down, and play a nice, non-homework related, game of Exploding Snap." He steered Hermione back towards the fireplace, ignoring her protests. Ron glanced back to where Harry sat, still cleaning up his homework.

"C'mon, Harry!" Ron called, pulling out his Exploding Snap deck. Dean and Neville ventured out from where they had been hiding, avoiding Hermione's homework spree, to join the group.

Harry grinned. "Alright, alright, I'm coming!" He laughed, and his smile was forged from glittering shards of weary humor, mixed with real exhaustion, because above all else, Hermione and Ron could never be allowed to discover his deal with Malfoy, or the true extent of his visions.

--

After the Exploding Snap tournament had finished, to hearty laughter and the piercing smell of singed hair, the boys retreated back upstairs.

All around the Sixth Year boys dormitory, everyone got ready to go to bed, sadly preparing for a return to classes the next morning. Everyone except Harry, who sat cross-legged on his bed, staring blankly at the dirty clothes which littered the floor. Teenage boys were not renowned for their cleanliness for good reason.

Eventually, Ron's voice shattered Harry's empty concentration. "You sure you're okay?"

Harry nodded. "Pomphrey said some of the potions might make me act a bit – off," he said. That, of course, was a blatant lie. Pomphrey refused to give Harry anything stronger than a mild Pain-Relieving potion after what had happened over the summer.

Ron, at least, seemed satisfied with the explanation, although the all-day homework marathon might have made him too tired to pursue the matter further.

One by one, the lights extinguished. Snores filled the room.

Finally, Harry was the only one awake, a lone island of consciousness in a sea of contended dreamers. If the other boys knew what horrors their dreams could contain, Harry wondered if they would still be sleeping quite so soundly.

Harry's limbs started to tingle painfully from his prolonged stillness. Exhaustion overwhelmed him, and Harry's eyes fluttered close. His head lolled forward uncomfortably, and Harry jerked awake.

Deliberately, he moved on the bed, until he sat with his back positioned firmly against the headboard. It was uncomfortable, the intricate carvings of vines and swirls digging painfully into his back. Harry did not care. In fact, he wriggled around, until the sharpest points of the wood carvings shoved into the most sensitive areas of his back.

More than anything, he did not want to fall asleep tonight.

Still, the warm dormitory lured him to sleep, a charming devil tempting him to sin. The darkness floated him away into unconsciousness, but Harry wrenched his eyes open.

"Damn it," he muttered. Fine, if he could not stay awake cocooned by the comfortable warmth and softness of his bed, he would go someplace more obliging.

Once again, Harry threw himself out the Gryffindor Tower, his Firebolt clutched in his hand. It was a deadly game he played, one where the potential for death was high.

The risk exhilarated Harry, though. Falling felt so _good_, for just the two or three seconds until he mounted his broom, scarce inches from the ground.

Everyone relied on Harry. They relied on him to be the quintessential savior: charming, intelligent, and, most of all, selfless. It was so nice, for the few seconds he plummeted, to throw away the crushing weight of responsibility.

Sometimes, Harry wondered what would happen if he never climbed onto his broom, if instead, his body kissed the ground with a painful collision of flesh and hard, unyielding stone.

He never did, though.

Harry flew up onto the roof of Hogwarts, to a spot far removed from any windows or towers which someone could look out of and see him. He sat on top the roof tiles, worn smooth from rain and snow, wind and time.

His Firebolt he laid carefully on the rooftop. Harry might not have much respect for his own safety, but the Firebolt was one of his few tangible memories of Sirius.

The chill September wind bit into his skin, but that was good, because it meant he would not fall asleep.

In his dreams lurked monsters.

Harry breathed in the cold air gratefully, his brilliant green eyes glittering from the sting of the wind.

"What, Potter, did your roommates finally wise up and kick you out? Of course, even your muggle relatives were intelligent to realize what a freak you were ages ago," a voice drawled maliciously behind Harry.

Harry instantly recognized the sharp-edged voice, and rose to his feet in a rare display of grace. He had forgotten it was Sunday, the day honored by his and Malfoy's Binding Pact.

Malfoy took a slow, measured step towards Harry. Harry stubbornly held his ground. The wind whipped through his untidy black hair, the color appearing as dark and empty as the night sky above.

Malfoy's pale coloration shone like the moon.

They stood facing each other, the Gryffindor and the Slytherin, perfectly matched by both their physical stature and the violent strength of their glares.

A surge of anger flowed through Harry like molten fire, scorching in its intensity. "You just never fucking stop, do you?" Harry laughed, the sound dangerously unstable. "You're always there, my own personal nightmare, come to torment me, as if my life doesn't suck nearly enough already."

Malfoy sneered. "Oh yes. Poor Harry Potter, Golden Boy of the Wizarding world. Did your fan club make your shrine too small, or do people not bow low enough anymore when you walk in a room?" Poisonous disdain dripped from Malfoy's voice.

The Slytherin walked closer, navigating the slippery tiles with an unsettling grace. "Your life could be so much worse," Malfoy hissed, barring his teeth, and the moonlight glinted off his fangs. They looked as sharp as blades.

Something indefinable sparked in Harry's eyes, something between both hatred and fearlessness, containing the strength of both, without truly being either.

The wild, uncontrolled expression made Harry look like an element of nature, all glowing green eyes and dark hair twisting violently.

Most of all, Harry looked dangerous.

Then, though, the moment passed, and once again a weary teenage boy stood facing the vampire on the roof.

Harry nodded acquiescence, and Malfoy curved his hand around the other boy's neck. Harry tried not to cringe back from the pain he knew was imminent. "Just hold still, Potter." Malfoy's voice was curiously low. Harry tried to figure out the reason for the change, but then Malfoy buried his fangs into his neck.

The stabbing pain was just as bad as he expected, and Harry almost welcomed the emptiness of an unconsciousness that was without dreams.

--

Draco looked at Potter, crumpled in his arms. There had been pure fury in Potter's eyes when he had looked at Draco not five minutes prior, an undeniably violent expression he had never before seen of Potter's face.

Something was happening to Potter, something which haunted the other boy enough to drive him up onto the roof at Hogwarts at night in near freezing weather despite his obvious exhaustion.

Draco remembered cruel red eyes flashing in the Gryffindor's pale face only the day before.

He was tempted to leave Potter to freeze to death on this gods-forsaken roof.

Draco had followed Potter up to the roof through the two perfectly circular scars on Potter's neck. Of course, Draco had expected Potter to be firmly tucked away inside the Gryffindor Tower. Once he had realized that the blood donor marks were guiding him to the roof, Draco had to make the long circuitous route back to the Slytherin dormitory to fetch his Nimbus Two-Thousand and One.

Initially, Draco had meant to approach Potter delicately, trick him into dissolving the Binding Pact. His bloodlust had combined with the irritation of having to stalk through half of Hogwarts to find Potter, though. By the time Draco finally found Potter, he was incensed beyond words, and had spat the first cruel thing he could think of, wanting to see Potter hurting as much as him.

Once again, Draco had impaled himself on his own sword.

There might still be a way to salvage the situation, though, to manipulate Potter's emotions in favor of Draco.

Draco looked at Potter, lying still as death in his arms.

Without sparing another second, for if he paused, he would definitely rethink his decision, Draco gathered Potter onto his Nimbus. He grabbed Potter's Firebolt with a twinge of jealous envy.

He did not even bother attempting the undoubtedly futile task of trying to find the Gryffindor Tower amid the myriad of towers and ramparts decorating the Hogwarts castle so haphazardly. Draco infinitely preferred the controlled elegance of Malfoy Manor.

Instead, Draco flew Potter down to the Slytherin dormitories, flying silently through the corridors.

He used the second entrance, which led directly to the Slytherin prefects' rooms, to secret Potter inside. Draco spoke the password to his rooms. The door opened silently. Draco went inside, and laid Potter down onto the bed. Here, the purple bruises under Potter's eyes were clearly evident.

For a fraction of a second, Draco felt real sorrow for Potter's plight. Then, though, the moment passed, and a cold, calculating Slytherin stood once again regarding the Gryffindor boy on his bed.

lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll

A/N: Pretty, pretty, pretty please review! Nothing makes me more excited and happy than seeing your reviews filling up my inbox. A special prize for my 100th reviewer!

_Contra mundum - _Against the world (Slytherin password)

_Sectum –_ cut

_Purgo vigoratus resarcio –_ cleanse, mend, and heal


	10. Chapter Ten

**BLOOD DONOR**

Summary: A vampyric Draco Malfoy attacks Harry Potter at Kings Cross before the start of Sixth Year. Now, Harry must escape a deal made with his own personal demon while he prepares to face Voldemort again…but is Draco truly an enemy? HP/DM

Warnings: Slash. Violence, angst. AU after Order of the Phoenix.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.

Favorite Review: Came from _blAiseCoRRupt, _who left me the most enthusiastic review I think I've ever received. Love you, _blAiseCoRRupt!!_

A/N: Here you go guys – my Christmas gift to you. Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, whatever holiday you may celebrate. Thanks for all the wonderful reviews…I don't think I've ever had so much feedback!

llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll

Harry realized two important facts upon waking.

--

First, his nightmarish visions had been strangely _different _last night.

Not better, nor less horrific, just _different. _

Gone had been the gruesome splatters of blood staining his surroundings a macabre red. _Harry had never realized how closely Gryffindor red resembled blood. _

No screams had pierced the air like shattered glass, no people had suffered, died, while Harry stood trapped, unable to help. _And Harry had never wanted so much in his life to be anyone but himself, and hated himself for the thought. _

Harry supposed the new version of his visions would not frighten many people.

_He had woken up drenched in a cold sweat. _

There had been only cool, black nothingness, broken only by harsh flickers of light and sound, come and gone so quickly Harry could not identify specific shapes or voices. In the darkness, though, which coiled tightly around Harry's consciousness like a noose, with the cool, dry whisper of snakeskin, had been a _feeling_.

A feeling, a sense of something so terribly _wrong_, and so unpleasantly _awful, _Harry, his black hair plastered to his forehead in the early morning blackness, cringed slightly, just remembering. It had been an inhuman corruption of the joy which comes from a pure triumph. A perverse celebration which emanated not from the victory attained in battle, but instead derived pleasure from the blood drying on the ground, the dead bodies strewn like autumn leaves around the final champion.

The victor, bathing in his enemy's blood.

Harry had hated it.

The darkness had slid whisper-soft over and around Harry's skin, a sickening, dry hiss of some strange material. Then, it had delved into his mind, slithering, creeping, crawling deeper, with all the ceaseless determination of the dead and the unbreakable strength of iron, until the foreign sensation had consumed all Harry's thoughts. It had settled _under _Harry's skin, a disturbing tattoo, branding his soul with darkness.

Harry had hated it.

He had hated feeling so distinctly vulnerable, a prisoner in his own mind, had hated that Voldemort had such a great control over their mental link.

The quiet, soothing blackness had been worse than any screaming. It had been far more subtle; tempting, rather than repulsing. The siren's song whose beauty paved the path to hell.

Beauty tempted even the most religious man to sin.

Harry had hated it, because he had enjoyed the sensation of watching the world burn, even knowing he had caused the flames. Had laughed as his friends had burned.

Harry hated it, because he had woken longing for the dark.

--

The second thing Harry became aware of through the haze of terror which now seemed to accompany his every return to wakefulness, was that he was in the wrong bed.

The sheets were far too soft, for one. Not that the sheets on Harry's bed in Gryffindor Tower were uncomfortable – sleeping in the cupboard under the stairs had educated Harry on the sheer misery of coarse, threadbare sheets. Only when he had arrived at Hogwarts had Harry been introduced to small, everyday luxuries like lying on a real bed. What Harry was currently resting on, though, felt almost sinfully smooth, a cotton masquerading as the purest silk.

Harry did not know exactly what had woken him. One minute, he had been suffocating under the thrall of a dark temptation, the next, he was awake, surrounded by a far more familiar blackness. Wherever he was, there were no windows, Harry noticed, with slight alarm. In the open and airy Gryffindor Tower, he could always see the sky.

Something moved.

"Who's there?" Harry asked cautiously, reaching swiftly for his wand. He could not find it, though he still wore his faded oversized jeans and red jumper from the night before. Harry's sense of alarm increased. He hastened off the bed, his rough clothes catching and pulling at the soft bedcovers.

Suddenly, Harry remembered his meeting with Malfoy on the roof, the moonlight highlighting every exposed angle with silver, transforming every shadow into a fathomless black. Malfoy's face, its sharp planes twisted with cruelty, had appeared a study in contrast, dark and light battling for dominance. And yet, Harry could not remember anything after Malfoy had bitten him, least of all how he had gotten off the roof.

"Damn it," Harry cursed violently, his green eyes flashing in the dark. "Malfoy, where the sodding hell am I?"

"Merlin, you're slow, Potter," Malfoy's voice drawled from a corner of the room. "It's a wonder you've managed to stay alive so long, when you continue to be this blatantly stupid."

As soon as Malfoy spoke, Harry could see the other boy's long-limbed silhouette leaning against a far wall; though, before, everything in the darkened room had appeared a uniform shade of black.

Malfoy aristocratically gestured, with a wave of his long-fingered hand, and soft yellow light flooded the room. Only then did Harry realize the rampant décor of the room.

Green and silver.

"Where. Am. I?" Harry asked again, a threat of violence darkening his tone. An array of delicate glass bottles, filled with multihued liquids, shook dangerously, clattering against each other on a desk.

To his surprise, Malfoy answered. "My room," the other boy said simply, a hint of a smirk on his face. "In the Slytherin dormitories."

The room looked like Malfoy, Harry noticed belatedly, even as he glared at the Slytherin boy. It possessed the same sort of rich sense of entitlement Malfoy draped around him like a cloak, filled as it was with undoubtedly expensive antique furniture decorated by intricate carvings and precious metal inlays. Rich green fabrics, shot through with gleams of metallic silver thread, draped decadently on the bed. Wood carvings of snakes, enchanted to move, twined sinuously around the headboard of the bed.

It was the type of grand opulence Harry abhorred, because it reeked of upper-class exclusivity, the type the Dursleys had tried so hard to emulate as they locked a four year old boy, afraid of the dark, into a cramped cupboard for days at a time, so they could equip another boy with luxury.

And in the corner, near the door, which, for all the opulence of the rest of the room, still resembled the door to a prison cell, rested Harry's Firebolt, apparently unharmed. Not that Harry trusted Malfoy on appearance alone. As soon as he returned to Gryffindor Tower, his Firebolt would be subject to every Anti-Jinx charm Hermione could think of. Assuming Malfoy allowed him to leave, of course. And if he did not oblige, well, Harry would find another way to make his exit. It would undoubtedly be more violent than he preferred, but bloodshed was a far better alternative than staying trapped in Slytherin House.

"Would you have liked it better if I left you to freeze to death on the roof instead?" Malfoy sneered dismissively, the gold from the lights shining off his hair.

A demon, masquerading as an angel.

Harry was painfully aware of how bad he looked in comparison to Malfoy's aristocratic form, dressed as he was in dirty, ragged clothes, black hair in wild disarray.

A pauper, facing a prince.

"Give me back my wand, Malfoy," Harry said through gritted teeth, the words a blatant demand.

"No, I don't think I will," Malfoy replied with infuriating arrogance, leaning against the wall. He twirled Harry's wand in his hand, blurring the air. The image transported Harry back in time, to when he faced another enemy who armed himself with Harry's wand, in a dungeon without sunlight. But Harry was no longer that young boy, huddled and scared on a damp stone floor, watching with angry tears as his best friend's sister died, and a charismatic monster laughed.

Harry wrenched himself back to the present. Malfoy, dangerous and cruel though he may be, was not Tom Riddle. Harry balled his hands into fists, the tendons in his hand stark white against his skin.

"You'll lose, Potter," Malfoy warned, looking carelessly at Harry's clenched fists. "Especially when I fed just last night." The dim lighting did nothing to visually dull the razor edges of Malfoy's fangs as the vampire barred his teeth in a feral grin. If anything, they appeared even more murderously sharp.

Harry contemplated fighting Malfoy anyway, just for the sheer satisfaction of driving his fist into the other boy's skin once again, just to hear skin split and bone crunch as blood coated his fist. He shifted subtly into a fighter's crouch, placing all his weight onto the balls of his feet, preparing to spring forward.

Malfoy leveled Harry's wand at its owner.

"You won't get close enough to land a blow," Malfoy hissed, shards of ice in his grey eyes.

"You fucking bastard." The curse was delivered without any regard for Malfoy's parentage. Harry meant to wound, to hurt. Purebloods despised any insinuation of illegitimacy in their bloodlines.

"Answer one question, _truthfully_, and I'll give you back your wand."

Harry smiled grimly, his green eyes almost black. "Why the hell should I trust a Slytherin's word?"

Malfoy smirked, though something painful glimmered behind his aristocratic mask for a brief, infinitesimal second, before his expression smoothed over into its customary icy disdain. "You really have no choice, Potter," the Slytherin said cruelly. Damn Malfoy, the bastard, the words were agonizingly close to what he had hissed to Harry in King's Cross station at the beginning of the year, when Harry's blood had stained his mouth a violent red.

"Would you _have_ preferred if I left you on the roof?" Malfoy asked, examining Harry with well-disguised curiosity.

Harry stiffened for an instant, before relaxing. "No," he replied harshly, with a bitter laugh. "Rubbish question, Malfoy. Now, give me back my wand." Harry held out his hand expectantly. His palm was scraped and bruised, probably from sitting on the roof, his fingernails ragged. Once again, Malfoy defied Harry's expectations, and placed the wand in Harry's hand. The wand felt ice cold in Harry's hand. Harry had expected it to be warm. The fact it wasn't only served to remind Harry of the inhuman nature of the boy in front of him.

Malfoy stared hungrily at Harry's upturned wrist. A silver star gleamed faintly on the skin, the image, a remnant of the Binding Pact, traveled over the bones in his wrist, moving with Harry's beating pulse point. Harry snatched his wrist back.

"Burn in hell, Malfoy," Harry snapped, fury blazing in his expression. He grabbed his Firebolt, and stalked out the door, not pausing to notice Malfoy's angry glare.

--

Draco leaned against his doorframe, his arms crossed, and watched Potter stride angrily out the Slytherin dormitories. He vaguely wondered how Potter knew the layout of Slytherin house so well, but attributed it to Potter's midnight wanderings in his Invisibility Cloak. They would have to reinforce the protections on the entrances.

Potter had sat on the roof, cross-legged, arms folded on his knees. The relaxed position spoke of familiarity with his surroundings, for any other student would have been frightened by the height and alien landscape of the roof. Especially at night, when the wind howled and the air chilled like death, and dangerous creatures rose from the Forbidden Forest to hunt.

Potter must go onto the roof often, then.

Dark purple bruises blackened the areas under Potter's eyes. The Gryffindor boy was too pale for September, the remnants of his normal summer tan almost unnoticeable. More than that, Potter _moved _wearily when he thought no one was watching, as though every step was painful.

Potter wasn't sleeping.

It was the only conclusion Draco could think of. Though, what could bother perfect Potter, the archetypal Gryffindor, enough to make him purposefully deprive himself of sleep, night after night? People fawned over the Golden Boy with almost sycophantic subservience.

But Potter had hesitated when Draco had asked about the roof, and the hesitation told him more than Potter's actual answer.

And there had been rumors, in Fifth, Fourth, even Second Year, about Potter's connection to the Dark Lord, and the visions it brought him. Draco, of course, had encouraged, started even, some of the most vicious gossip, giving information to Rita Skeeter behind an old oak tree on Hogwart's grounds. All for the sheer joy of seeing Potter angry and depressed as the world turned against him with all of the sadistic pleasure it saved for its fallen and disgraced heroes.

So nice, for Draco, to see the witch hunt from the predator's perspective, rather than the prey's.

And if the rumors were true…Draco dismissed the thought as ridiculous. Potter was far too much the Golden Boy, the Savior of the Wizarding World, to share a mental link with the Dark Lord.

_A pair of cruel red eyes, glowing violently in Potter's wan face…_

Although, Potter was nowhere near as selflessly pure as his reputation insinuated. Potter had a cruel streak, one which allowed him to fight with an utter ruthlessness and disregard for his opponent, which even Draco admired, for it hinted at a mercilessness no Gryffindor could bear to possess.

If the rumors were true…Potter had killed a man, Professor Quirrell, in First Year.

If the rumors were true…it had not been a clean kill either, the type heralded by a bright green light and the sudden fall of a body. Potter, it was said, had used his bare hands to somehow burn Quirrell to death. Quirrell's death would have been slow, agonizing, for both the victim and his murder, as the vile smell of burnt flesh choked the air, and Quirrell's skin collapsed into a melted heap under Potter's hands.

Draco remembered how quickly Potter had reached for his wand upon waking, and earlier, when Draco had first shoved Potter onto the floor of King's Cross station. The reactions had been immediate, automatic in both cases, the type of response which spoke of years of practice, hardened into habit, tempered until the quick movement became as intrinsically a part of Potter as the vibrant green eyes he had inherited from his dead Mudblood mother. It spoke of desperation, of warranted fear, of necessary caution, the sort of intelligent wariness most idiotic Gryffindors were too ashamed to exhibit. The type of cunning precaution a Slytherin held in high esteem. Kill your enemies first, bother with misplaced morals later, or never at all.

Weakness could not be tolerated by Slytherins.

And Potter, as infuriating as the other boy may be, was not _weak. _

Draco smirked slightly. Potter would prove highly entertaining, a prey worthy of Draco's skill. And, if Draco played his cards right…well, that could provide so much more amusement.

In the dark, Draco's grey eyes gleamed dangerously.

--

"If you would all turn to page five hundred-eighty three of _Advanced Potion Making,_ and begin work on your Chameleon potion, which will be due in at the end of class today. Extra points to anyone with a perfect potion…not that'll be a problem for you, eh, Ms. Granger?"

Sitting between Ron and Harry, Hermione blushed pink at Professor Slughorn's praise. Harry did not think Hermione had ever received any positive commendation in a Potions class before, just rude comments and bitter sneers. Because of Snape's continued absence, though, which the Gryffindors had cheered as the Slytherins had glared, McGonagall had asked Slughorn, the Potions professor before Snape, to teach until the other man returned.

Privately, Harry hoped Snape never returned.

It had barely been two weeks, but already Hermione's intelligence had garnered Slughorn's attentions and praise. Slughorn, though a Slytherin himself, showed no favoritism towards his own house. If anything, Slughorn was prejudiced against Slytherin House, if his tendency to ignore questions from the Slytherin side of the room was any indication. Instead, he showered Gryffindors, Hermione and Harry especially, with aid and extra points. Malfoy, Snape's favorite, must be furious, Harry thought with more than a little vindictive glee.

_Why had Malfoy taken him off the roof?_

"You're going to help us too, right, Hermione?" Ron whispered anxiously, staring at the complex array of ingredients resting on the rough-hewn wood desk in front of him with obvious apprehension.

Hermione frowned, her mass of brown hair already bent over the correct page in her own potions book. Absently, she tapped her wand against her cauldron, and the merrily simmering potion, already bright green, the exact color the book described, bubbled furiously. "You could just study the material beforehand, like I do," she sniffed disapprovingly.

Harry and Ron shared a private grin over her lowered head. Hermione never deliberately failed to help them on a school assignment unless she was upset at one of them, most often Ron.

"Harry couldn't study, though," Ron said, grinning. "He was out all last night, with that girl. Didn't come in 'til dawn."

Harry glared fiercely at Ron, chopping his dried Shrivelfig root with unnecessary vehemence. His silver knife, adorned with unattractive nicks and stains, cut violently through the Shrivelfig, lodging deep into the tabletop. If Hermione found out about Harry's deal with Malfoy…

"Harry!" Hermione hissed. "It's not _safe_ for you, especially you, to go out after curfew…If you were caught, you could be _expelled_…"

"Oh, come on, Hermione. They're not going to expel Harry. He could probably set McGonagall's Transfiguration classroom on fire, and it wouldn't matter. Lighten up."

Harry wondered why Ron's words bothered him so much. It probably was true; they would not dare to expel _Harry Potter_, esteemed Savior of the Wizarding World, Golden Boy extraordinaire. Perhaps that was the problem. Harry had never wanted to be exceptional, had only wanted, even at the Dursley's, to be normal, to have living parents, to not be hated, despised, by his relatives. Then, though, he had gone to Hogwarts, and for his eleven-year old self, that had been wonderful, magical, like his whole future had lightened from the dreary misery he had been anticipating, and he had finally found someplace to be accepted and _normal. _

More than anything, sometimes, Harry wanted to be normal.

He did not want to be chased and threatened and almost killed every year by a sadistic dark lord, whose dangerous pride could not allow one meager boy to live after defying him. He did not want to see his friends die in front of him, because of him, did not want to see his parents, and Quirrell, and Cedric, and Sirius, in his dreams, did not want to relive their deaths again and again in his nightmares.

"What girl?" Hermione asked suspiciously, minutes later, when her intense concentration broke. Harry did not answer, concentrating instead on stirring his potion the exact number of times. Three half-turns clockwise, eight counterclockwise turns, add powdered spiders legs, repeat five times. Then, the book said, the potion should be a pale shade of turquoise blue.

"What girl, Harry?"

Harry's hand jerked slightly as he continued stirring. "Err…"

Ron interrupted, grinning. "Whoever she is, Harry has one hell of a hickey on his neck."

Automatically, Harry clasped his hand to the side of his neck, trying to stir his potion properly. "Damn it, Ron," Harry swore. He had thought his grey turtleneck, which he had quickly changed into when he had run back into the Gryffindor dormitory that morning just as the sun dawned, hid the mark properly. He did not raise his eyes to meet Hermione's curious gaze. Hermione was far too bloody intelligent to be fooled by such a weak excuse, and Harry knew it was only a matter of time before she discovered everything.

He could postpone detection for as long as possible, though.

And, because Harry had forgotten to add the powdered spider legs, his potion, supposed to be a pale blue, turned an angry, smoldering orange. "Harry!" Hermione cried out in alarm, pointing at his potion. He looked down instantly, rushing to correct his mistake, but it was too late.

_Bang! _The potion exploded with a violent sound and rush of light. Globs of potion, ocher in coloration, flew with projectile force throughout the room, hitting many of the students with unabashed vigor.

Half the class, glaring and muttering curses at Harry, shuffled to the front of the room to receive antidotes from Professor Slughorn.

"The Chameleon potion, if brewed correctly," Slughorn explained to the complaining class in a loud voice, "alters one aspect of the drinker's appearance, like a weaker version of the Polyjuice potion, which we will be working on later in the year." Slughorn beamed at the assembled students.

"We would like the antidote, _sir_, not an useless monologue," Draco Malfoy sneered. "Before Potter's incompetence does who knows what harm to us."

Slughorn glowered at Malfoy, who glared back arrogantly, but did finally reach for the antidote, though he continued speaking. "Now then, Harry's potion," Slughorn sprayed a bottle of grey liquid on one student's arm, which was beginning to smoke alarmingly, "had been interrupted during a combustible period of the brewing process. Not to worry, though, any exposed body parts hit with the potion should only change colors, and smoke slightly."

Harry looked at his own arms, which had been spattered with the potion as it had exploded. They were rapidly changing color, turning red, yellow, green, and blue in quick succession, all the while smoking ominously. His arms started to burn painfully. Quickly, he joined the queue to receive the antidote.

At least, Harry reflected as Slughorn sprayed his arms with the vile-smelling antidote, Hermione was too distracted by her own rainbow-hued, smoldering hair, to ask him any more questions.

--

"Oy, Harry, why didn't you tell us?" Ron exclaimed loudly as he sat down next to Harry at dinner the same day. Hermione remained uncharacteristically quiet, scowling down at her plate. She was probably, Harry reflected, still upset by the fact portions of her hair kept shifting color. For some reason, the antidote had not worked quite as well on Hermione's hair, presumably, as Slughorn had explained with the sheer ignorance of a man who perpetually digs his own grave, due to its unusual thickness and volume.

A few yards down the table, Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil kept shooting Hermione sympathetic glances, and wincing occasionally at her hair. Hermione's grip on her book tightened severely as this continued to occur.

Ron had helpfully tried to point out to Hermione earlier, as they escaped the Potion's room, that at least her hair had subsided from emitting clouds of smoke. Hermione had slapped him.

"Didn't tell you what?" Harry asked, piling a helping of steak and kidney pie on his plate.

"You're the new Quidditch captain!" Ron exclaimed. "Bloody hell, mate, that's amazing!"

"I thought Quidditch was cancelled this year," Hermione finally ceased her silent indignation over her hair, though she kept reaching up to surreptitiously touch it on occasion, as though trying to psychically discern if it had finally stopped changing color.

"Well, it was," Harry explained in a low voice, not certain when McGonagall planned to make the announcement. "But the teachers decided it would be best for the school…morale, or something, if they kept up with Quidditch this year, too."

"I think reinstating Quidditch is a wonderful idea, what with the sort of… _depressed _atmosphere invading the school lately, you know?" Hermione said.

"Wicked," Ron said enthusiastically, completely ignoring Hermione's statement. "When are tryouts? I always thought I'd be a good Keeper."

"I dunno," Harry said, a heady wave of alarm rushing over him. He had no idea how to even go about conducting tryouts, how the hell was he supposed to captain?

"You'll be fine, Harry," Hermione reassured him distractedly, her book from the night before resting on the table in front of her. A streak of green rushed blazed through her hair. Ron looked at Harry, and promptly burst out laughing.

Hermione hit him with her book.

"Ow!" Hermione shot Ron a withering glance. Ron rubbed his arm indignantly. "C'mon, Hermione. I think green looks good on you…" Ron trailed off weakly, his freckled face red. Harry made a valiant effort to hide a grin.

"Slughorn said it would just take a while longer than normal for the effects to wear off," Hermione said, annoyance tingeing her voice. Ron hastened to assure her that he definitely thought the colors were fading.

Blinded by Ron and Hermione's indignant conversation, Harry barely noticed McGonagall rising to her feet.

"Excuse me, students," McGonagall said in a loud voice. Slowly, the clatter of silverware on china, and the chatter of student voices ceased. The Slytherin table took by far the longest to acknowledge McGonagall's presence.

"The staff and I have agreed, in light of current events, to reinstate the Quidditch tournament this year." Stunned silence greeted her words, followed by loud cheers.

"Quidditch captains have already been notified of their positions by their Head of House. From Gryffindor, Harry Potter, from Slytherin, Draco Malfoy, from Hufflepuff…" Harry looked at the Slytherin table, competitive fire blazing in his eyes, to see Malfoy seated elegantly amidst a congratulatory sea of green and silver. Malfoy smirked back at him in return. Harry missed the name of the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw captains. Not that it truly mattered. The real competition, the one imbued with blood and sweat and aggressive rage rather than a neat point tally and friendly handshakes, always occurred between Gryffindor and Slytherin.

"The first match, between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw, will occur in three weeks, on the seventh of October. Thank you." McGonagall sat down neatly in her chair, a faint smile gracing her face at the tumultuous outburst in front of her.

"Three weeks?" Harry asked the rest of his table in stunned disbelief. "Is McGonagall _insane_? There's no way…we have to have tryouts, and training, and _strategy…_"

"When are tryouts anyway, Harry?" Ginny Weasley asked curiously from further down the table. A loud chorus of voices echoed the questions.

"Yeah, when are tryouts, Harry?"

"Harry, I think…"

"Harry!"

"Alright!" Harry stood and yelled down the table, his supper forgotten. "Practice is tomorrow at three o'clock. I'll go book the pitch straight after dinner. Any more questions, take it up with me then." He sat down heavily.

Next to Harry, Ron groaned sympathetically. "Ravenclaw, how bloody awful. And Slytherin is going to flatten Hufflepuff, no contest."

Harry nodded, cradling his head in his hands. There really was no way Hufflepuff stood to defeat Slytherin, especially with the way Malfoy played…Dishonest to the bone. Also, Slytherin retained most of its old team members, while the Weasley twins had left Hogwarts the prior year, and Katie Bell would not be returning to finish the school year after what happened to her parents. He would have to assemble a team almost from scratch, and train them…but, regardless, Harry would be _damned_ if he allowed Slytherin to defeat Gryffindor this year, _especially_ because Malfoy, the arse, was captain.

The same sort of frantic commotion swarmed the captains at all the other House tables. Panic and flurried movement, accompanied by strategic conversation, filled the room, except at the Slytherin table, where an almost unnatural calm reigned supreme. Malfoy was discussing Quidditch fiercely, but with unusual restraint. He would jab harshly at the table, deftly outlining some strategy, but talked in a low voice.

A commander, who did not wish his battle plans overheard.

"Quiet down please!" A loud voice yelled imperiously over the din. McGonagall once again stood up, facing the students, though now she looked severely aggravated.

"Thank you, Professor McGonagall," a gravely voice stated politely. "I wished to speak my piece before you announced such joyous news, but I suppose it can't be helped now." Rufus Scrimgeour stepped abruptly forward. Low mutterings filled the Great Hall at his appearance.

"My name is Rufus Scrimgeour. I am, as many of you know, the new Minister of Magic." Scrimgeour's voice sounded slightly strange. The Minister spoke in a normal voice, but it echoed loudly throughout the immense room nevertheless. His words, as result, sounded oddly hollow, as though they had been stretched and expanded far beyond their original depth. Harry looked at Hermione is askance.

"Sonorous Charm," she mouthed absently, staring with fixed concentration at the Minister.

"Following an incident which occurred recently here at Hogwarts, I wish to inform you all of the Ministry's new regulations on the use of dark magic. Some," Scrimgeour looked slightly back at McGonagall, who narrowed her eyes at him, "tell me you are too young to be concerned about these policies. I disagree. This concerns the entirety of the Wizarding world." Scrimgeour's voice rang throughout the room like stone on iron. Several students sat straighter in their seats, transfixed by the Minister's voice, until their attentiveness almost rivaled Hermione's own focus.

Once again, Harry was forcibly reminded of _exactly_ why Rufus Scrimgeour had been elected Minister. Scrimgeour appeared strong, powerful, his Auror background extremely attractive to a Wizarding world frightened by Voldemort. There was something compelling in the straightforward way Scrimgeour spoke, something all of Fudge's evasions and meaningless political babble never did achieve. It made Scrimgeour appear trustworthy, and more important, _competent. _

Scrimgeour's next words were no less commanding. "No longer is the Ministry going to sit idly by and allow dark magic users to go unpunished. Anyone suspected of dark magic use _will _be investigated. The Ministry's prior reluctance to arrest those suspected of dark magic use is _precisely _what allowed You-Know-Who to rise to power previously." Many people flinched at the mention of Voldemort, and Harry reflected that the war was becoming truly horrible, if people could not even bear to hear Voldemort's moniker.

"If any of you strongly suspect any of your classmates of being allied with You-Know-Who, I urge you to speak your suspicions to your teachers immediately. The Ministry will no longer ignore the threat of dark magic, no matter how insignificant it may appear. You-Know-Who's evil can be defeated, but not if he has his supporters allied around him."

Many of the students turned to look at the Slytherin table with venom in their eyes. "Thank you for your attention," Scrimgeour said gruffly, and he was no longer an indomitable figure preaching fire and brimstone, but a grizzled Auror addressing a room of students. McGonagall moved to escort Scrimgeour down from the stage, and then, in an instant, he was gone, as fast as he had arrived.

"If you'll please report to your respective Common Rooms immediately," McGonagall stated severely, as soon as the door to the Great Hall had closed behind the Minister. A frown creased her voice.

"Wow," Hermione whispered as she, Ron, and Harry walked through a throng of students, out the Great Hall. "That was…unexpected."

"I saw him, Scrimgeour, on Saturday," Harry said in a low voice. "He came into the Hospital Wing just after you guys left. Wanted to know why I was in the Hospital Wing, you know, if it was a fight. Talked about dark magic then, too."

Hermione frowned as someone in a yellow and black scarf jostled her. "You didn't tell him about the visions, did you?"

"No," Harry replied shortly. "Course not. I don't trust any of the Ministry, especially after Fudge."

"Bloody moron, Fudge," Ron muttered angrily. "Springing us with Umbrige…" Even Hermione's face darkened at the mention of Umbrige.

"Yeah, Scrimgeour said the Ministry would be keeping a closer eye on Hogwarts this year, too," Harry said as they walked up a moving staircase, neatly jumping over a vanishing step.

"At least Scrimgeour knows enough to tell everyone about dark magic," Ron said furiously.

"But did you hear _how_ he said it?" Hermione replied worriedly. "It was like he was saying all dark magic users were Vol…Voldemort supporters, and everyone already associates the Slytherins with dark magic…"

"And you're worried because people think dark magic is evil, and so Slytherins must be evil, too," Ron finished abruptly. "Hermione, you just don't _understand_," Ron continued in an anxious voice, as though he was pleading with Hermione to support him. "Dark magic _is _evil, and if the Slytherins use it, than they're evil, too. You have no idea how bad dark magic really is, what it was used for, last time You-Know-Who took over."

Harry remembered Malfoy, suffocating Carmichael and the others in the corridor, remembered the hauntingly dark look Malfoy's eyes had contained as people died in front of him, because of him, and the sinister whisper of power, frighteningly similar to Harry's dream, tainted the air.

"Ron's right," Harry interrupted Hermione harshly as she opened her mouth to argue with Ron. They stepped through the portrait hole, into the read and gold decorated common room. "You think the Slytherins are innocent of what they do, because they're still in school, still kids our age…Voldemort was younger than fourteen when he killed his parents with dark magic, only sixteen when he released the basilisk on the muggleborns…"

"Harry, calm down!" Hermione commanded, and Harry belatedly realized he had begun to yell. The crowd packing the Gryffindor common room stared at him with anxious eyes. Colin Creevey in particular looked like he would take out his camera in another moment and start taking pictures. Harry could see the headline: _Boy Who Lived_ _Suffers Mental Breakdown. Is Harry Potter the Next Dark Lord?_

Harry lowered his voice dramatically. "Just…don't think they're all innocent. Because they're not."

Professor McGonagall strode through the mass of assembled students, her mouth compressed into a thin white line. "If I hear any of you," she began without introduction, "has gone and told the Ministry tales about one of your fellow students, you will serve detention every day until the end of the year. Of all the nerve of the Minister," McGonagall fumed, and now, she was clearly speaking half to herself, "asking schoolchildren to spy on their fellow classmates!"

"But, Professor," Ron said hesitantly, "the Slytherins –"

"Are students at this school, Mr. Weasley, and it is their teachers' responsibility to monitor their behavior."

"But we're in a _war_, Professor!" Harry fumed.

"I do not care, Mr. Potter! Gryffindors stand for honor, and respect, and decency, and I will not allow any of you to so shame any of your fellow students. I do not expect to hear any more discussion on this matter!" McGonagall snapped loudly, over a loud volley of protests.

"The Slytherins are evil, though…"

"…dark magic users to the core…"

"…Slytherins…dark magic…support You-Know-Who…"

"That is enough!" McGonagall yelled, and her voice thundered throughout the Common Room. Everyone quieted immediately. Harry could not remember a time McGonagall had shouted in anger before, and, presumably, no one else had, either.

"I have never been more ashamed of my Gryffindors…for you all to so readily want to participate in this _witch hunt_…" The pureblood students in the room, like the Weasleys, became even more unnaturally quiet. Ron's face had blanched an ugly white, his freckles standing out in sharp relief.

A whisper of unease swept through the room like fire, as students refused to look at one another. Clearly, the whole of the witch hunt did not concern harmless tales like Wendolyn the Weird, who utilized tickling charms to make the flames harmless. But, then, Harry reflected, perhaps he should have realized that before, for their history books only mentioned events containing intense destruction and death.

--

In the Slytherin dormitories, a message arrived, demanding Draco Malfoy report to Professor McGonagall's rooms immediately for a meeting with the Minister of Magic about his actions on Saturday.

lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll

A/N: Please, please, please review! I'll love you forever! And, if my undying love and gratitude is not enough, I promise to reply to anyone who leaves a signed review!!

--


	11. Chapter Eleven

**BLOOD DONOR**

Summary: A vampyric Draco Malfoy attacks Harry Potter at Kings Cross before the start of Sixth Year. Now, Harry must escape a deal made with his own personal demon while he prepares to face Voldemort again…but is Draco truly an enemy? HP/DM

Warnings: Slash. Violence, angst. AU after Order of the Phoenix.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.

Favorite Review: Came from _Camille, _who could not leave a signed review, or else I would have emailed her this, too, but she left me one of the nicest reviews I ever have received. As a writer, I got this warm glow, just reading it. Thank you so much, _Camille_, for the inspirational review. If you find your account, feel free to email me. I'd love to talk to you.

A/N: Hope you all had an excellent holiday! I'm so happy, you all really seemed to like the plot I've included so far…I was sort of worried that I didn't explain things well enough, actually. To those who don't feel this story has enough Harry/Draco in it, relax. Patience. I am working on it, but I'm also trying to include a _plot_, rather then just slash. It will come, I assure you.

llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll

"Come in, Mr. Malfoy," Professor McGonagall said to Draco, a sharp clip accentuating her voice. The tone was undeniably angry, but then, McGonagall never expressed even remote happiness upon seeing a Slytherin student outside of class; particularly Draco, who was widely regarded as the epitomic Slytherin.

McGonagall moved aside to allow Draco to pass through the elaborately carved wood doorway. He expected the intricately decorated entry was a testament to McGonagall's Transfiguration skills…none of the other professors had such opulent entrances to their personal rooms.

Rows of books decorated the walls inside the first room, and a grand fireplace occupied another wall. A large window created the final wall. Through the glass, Draco could see the faint outlines of the Quidditch pitch fading slowly into the darkness of the night. Everything in the room, obviously used as a study, was meticulously arranged, with the same rigorous neatness McGonagall's tightly bound hair and straightforward robes exhibited.

Draco did not speak as he entered. He was no more enamored of McGonagall than McGonagall was of him. Everyone outside of Slytherin House believed Snape was the only prejudiced professor in Hogwarts, but McGonagall and the other professors had other, more subtle ways of expressing their disdain of the Slytherin portion of the school.

"Well, sit down, Mr. Malfoy," McGonagall said curtly, gesturing to a well-worn couch that probably once had possessed some semblance of the elegance imbued in every curl of the entryway, but was now long faded from use.

Draco's mouth curved into a slight sneer as he sat fastidiously on the couch. "Of course, Professor," he replied with as much arrogance as he could muster while still retaining a modicum of deference. Best to keep the illusion of respect preserved while he endured this farce of an investigation. _Draco Malfoy, _the message delivered by a terrified Hufflepuff Second Year, had begun. Three Sixth Year Hufflepuffs accompanied the younger student, clearly acting as a sort of guard. They had glared at Draco with hate in their eyes. _Report to Professor McGonagall's rooms immediately for an audience with the Minister of Magic about your activities this past Saturday. _He knew exactly what they wanted to question him about, especially after having listened to Scrimgeour's fetid speech against dark magic only two hours prior.

The investigation of dark magic always stemmed from fear.

Fear of power, fear of subjugation, fear of death, life, battle, blood…None of the excuses mattered. In the end, cold, numbing, horrifying fear festered like a wound, growing in both complexity and prevalence, until nameless, faceless, terror overwhelmed an entire population, and the people clamored for the extinction of the cause of their fear.

Turn on a light, and the dark disappears.

But, eventually, with the departure of the dark comes the inevitable realization that the darkness still lurks, just out of reach of the light. And so, the fear grows again, becoming relentlessly pervasive, until it transforms into _hatred_, just to mask the fear.

And with the Dark Lord gaining power, flaunting dark magic, the Ministry was undoubtedly afraid. The Mudbloods and half-bloods who invaded the wizarding world and never even attempted to conform to tradition, comprised the real problem. They spread their petty judgments and fears like the muck for which they were named. And then they had the gall to wonder why pureblood families like the Malfoy's despise them so much. Their filth was collapsing the very foundations of the wizarding world, their introduction into the old bloodlines weakening new generations of magic, slowly destroying the wizarding world.

A plague everyone saw, yet still persisted in feigned blindness to the destruction it created.

The Dark Lord realized the importance of preserving the bloodlines, of annihilating the ineffective sham that disguised itself as the Ministry. He knew that ignoring and fearing dark magic was illogical to the extreme. How inconceivably stupid, for the wizarding world to ignore half of its heritage, merely because the Mudbloods deemed it improper.

A loud knock sounded at the door. McGonagall ceased her silent contemplation of Draco, and walked to the door. She welcomed the Minister of Magic with almost the same amount of controlled antipathy she had greeted Draco with.

"Come in, Minister. Mr. Malfoy has already arrived."

"Thank you, Minerva," Scrimgeour replied courteously, and stepped inside. For the first time, Draco had the opportunity to examine the new Minister. Of course, he had met with Fudge several times in the company of his parents, before his father had been arrested, and the Malfoy name had suffered a severe political blow as a result.

Scrimgeour had definitely been a field Auror, Draco gathered from the silvery scars running across the older man's face. That, and the fact the new Minister boasted a noticeable lack of bodyguards. So not only had Scrimgeour been an Auror, he must have been a good one, too, but Draco could have determined that from Scrimgeour's prior position as Head of Magical Law Enforcement.

"Mr. Malfoy," Scrimgeour growled in way of a greeting.

Draco stood. "Minister," he replied coolly, not bothering to offer his hand. Scrimgeour, as was evident from the harsh glare he leveled at Draco in return, would not have shaken it, anyway. The unspoken insult involved would have made Draco appear weak, in addition to giving Scrimgeour the position of power in the upcoming conversation. Draco did not want to be burdened by even the slightest disadvantage. If he did not defend himself properly, it was very conceivable that he could end up in a cell in Azkaban before the night was out.

Draco did _not _wish to rot his life away in Azkaban.

Of course, he would probably die in the prison before a month had passed, without any blood to drink. Mentioning that little problem to the Azkaban guards would result in Draco's execution, rather than mere imprisonment. No, Azkaban was not an option.

Draco allowed himself to relax slightly. Scrimgeour did not possess any real evidence; otherwise, he would have launched a Binding Spell at Draco as soon as he had entered the room.

Scrimgeour regarded Draco for a minute. "Your actions on Saturday have landed you in a very bad position, Mr. Malfoy." Draco could see the Auror emerging, scattering Scrimgeour's carefully contrived politician veneer with cracks. What would the Wizarding world think, to know their precious Minister still possessed a type of vigilante mentality?

A few more minutes passed.

Scrimgeour was trying to get Draco to incriminate himself. Inwardly, Draco jeered at the tactic. It would take far more than an unspoken threat and prolonged silence to discomfort Lucius Malfoy's son.

Draco did not speak.

"A student has come forward, testifying that you attacked them this past Saturday, with dark magic, without provocation." A hard glint entered Scrimgeour's pale blue eyes.

"With all due respect, _sir_, that student is lying." Draco wondered exactly what to say. He decided on a half-truth. After all, McGonagall still stood in the corner of the room, supervising the conversation, and by the decidedly angry fold of her arms, she was not pleased to have the Minister interrogate one of her students. Whatever her prejudices against Slytherin House, McGonagall was unyieldingly fair about punishments.

They must have looked strange, the grizzled politician and lean schoolboy facing each other with identical hatred blazing in their eyes.

"I was indeed involved in a fight, _sir_," Draco tacked on the honorific with a slight sneer, "But they cast the first curse, and I did not use dark magic." He had, of course, considered denying the fight entirely, but even he could not explain away the injuries on the students in the Hospital Wing.

"The witness gave a different account, Mr. Malfoy."

Of course they did, Draco thought angrily, though he kept his face carefully devoid of any emotion. As for the identity of the witness, it could only be Carmichael or one of the other Seventh Year boys in the corridor…or Potter. Granger and the Weasel had arrived well after the fight was finished, and had been too concerned with Potter's collapse to bother a professor about a fight they had not been involved in, and had not seen.

But Potter…Potter had seen.

"They said you used dark magic to bind them in stone, and then tried to suffocate them," Scrimgeour said, trying and failing miserably to speak dispassionately, for his expressionless voice was completely at odds with the fury blazing in his expression.

McGonagall's face mirrored the disgust in Scrimgeour's voice. Instinctively, Draco knew he had lost his only supporter in the room.

He was dangerously close to falling off the precipice, onto the Devil's Snare which lurked with deliberate patience below, praying for him to fall.

Enough.

Draco deliberately straightened his stance, unfolding his arms from across his chest. His posture, he knew from years of pureblood etiquette lessons with his mother, was immaculate, and the particular set of his chin made him appear appallingly upper-class. Draco made certain to infuse his voice with as much angry disbelief as he could muster. "You may check my wand, Minister." His voice lost any illusion of warmth, thrumming with cold fury. "You will not find any dark magic spells."

The statement, of course, would register as undeniably true, even when checked with Veritaserum. Draco had spelled away all traces of dark magic on his wand just minutes after the fight had occurred.

The mane of yellow-grey hair around Scrimgeour's lined face shook unexpectedly. It was not immediately obvious whether the Minister was laughing or merely shaking his head. Both possibilities unnerved Draco, for both reactions were unanticipated. Scrimgeour should be enraged, furious, not _laughing_ as Draco purposefully insulted him.

"If a Malfoy is willingly offering up his wand, it only means you have removed any trace of your guilt already," Scrimgeour's eyes glittered with dangerous black humor. Draco's lips twitched into a faint smirk.

The accusation was true, of course, and both Draco and the Minister knew it, but McGonagall did not, and in her ignorance lay Draco's most viable path to victory.

"Minister!" McGonagall protested angrily. "You can not accuse one of my students, then refuse the evidence he offers to defend himself. You will check his wand, and then, whatever the outcome, this matter is settled."

Righteous Gryffindor indignation was wonderful when it was utilized in your defense.

Scrimgeour waved his wand over Draco's wand, and muttered something indistinguishable. A few seconds passed, then vague shapes of various, curriculum-approved, spells emerged like silent ghosts from the tip of Draco's wand. A translucent book floating over Draco's head imitated the effects of a Summoning Charm as he tilted his head to watch, expressionless.

"No dark magic spells, Minister. Your business here is concluded," McGonagall said curtly, her tone as sharp as the silver knife resting reassuringly in Draco's pocket like a charm.

Scrimgeour threw on his thick wool coat with obvious vehemence, frustration and rage embodied in all his too quick movements. He moved towards the doorway, but paused with his hand on the doorknob. "Rest assured, Mr. Malfoy, if I receive even one more accusation of dark magic in regards to you, you will be investigated in Auror headquarters, far from any misplaced sense of aid." Scrimgeour glared at McGonagall with far less than his normal courtesy.

"I'll have to make certain you don't hear any more accusations, then, Minister," Draco said blandly. The slight tightening of two pairs of angry eyes informed Draco that the other two occupants of the room had caught the double meaning behind his words, as he knew they would. Scrimgeour left the room without replying, and Draco was left facing McGonagall, who observed him with tightly clenched lips.

"Should I ever discover evidence that you did indeed use dark magic on Mr. Carmichael and his friends, I will personally notify the Ministry. Do you understand, Mr. Malfoy?" McGonagall' strong disapproval was as brittle and staccato as an army marching over a graveyard of fallen leaves. The harsh glare she leveled at Draco possessed all the danger of an invading force, as well.

"Perfectly, professor," Draco replied coldly. He appeared a vision of ice, his grey eyes cool, his hair glinting silver, his expression glacial in its intensity. "Is that all?"

"Leave, Mr. Malfoy." McGonagall said harshly, anger and disgust carving her into fury personified.

Draco left without further conversation, striding through the elaborately carved doorway with a faint sneer of contempt.

--

Draco stalked back to the Slytherin dormitory, something feral twisting in his eyes. He paused in front of the appropriate section of wall, and pulled a silver knife out of his pocket with a deft twist of his wrist. Quickly, he slashed a shallow cut across the pale tips of two of his fingers, and smeared the resulting blood on the carved snake coiled in the corner of one of the infinite number of stone blocks comprising the dungeon passageway with a violent gesture.

When he spoke the password, it resounded through the air like a curse.

The Slytherin common room was conspicuously absent of older students. Two Second Years talked quietly on a green and black couch in front of the fireplace. The space was normally reserved for the older students.

"Where is everyone?" Draco asked them coldly.

The two younger students, one a dark-haired blonde, the other, a brunette, looked up, startled, at the question. They immediately stood, almost falling off the couch in their haste. Something frightening lurked in Draco's tone and demeanor, something that, upon first glance, seemed elegant. Arrogant, but harmless nevertheless. Upon further consideration, though, the silkiness of Draco's voice seemed menacing, a thin veneer struggling to contain the monster prowling underneath the pureblood polish.

"Warrington called a meeting," the brunette finally answered. Her apathetic reply almost, but not entirely, concealed the fear she felt. Draco saw that the blonde's right hand, partially hidden behind her friend, firmly gripped her wand.

Draco smiled slightly. The other girl grabbed her wand, as well. Malfoys were well-known for their vicious tempers, and Draco appeared particularly violent at the moment.

He left without asking any more questions. Of course, he did not need any other answers. All of the older students had disappeared late on the night the Minister had announced his campaign against dark magic…they were in the Green Room.

It took almost five minutes to reach the Green Room. Down a corridor, a sharp right, up another corridor; the path was deliberately indirect. The circuitous route was created to confuse and separate an invading force, so the Slytherins, dangerous familiar with the winding maze, could easily destroy any approaching enemy.

Not to mention all the side paths bristling with fatal traps…

Finally, Draco arrived at a blank stretch of wall in the midst of one of the most dimly lit, unpleasant corridors in the Slytherin dormitory. The foul atmosphere partially derived from the numerous repulsing spells positioned along the wall. The spells were specifically designed to encourage the perception of dank unpleasantness. They also emitted a sense of subtle _wrongness_ which grated on the nerves, making it seem as though every shadow, every noise was dangerous.

He placed of his hands on the wall. It was grey, lined with a darker stone that looked eerily like veins, traversing bloodily across the hall. He carefully enunciated his name. "Draco Malfoy." A green and silver glow lit the area under his hands with an unnatural witchlight, casting a grey pallor across Draco's face, deepening the shadows under his eyes. An alien hum resonated through the air.

Draco kept his hands firmly positioned on against the stone blocks with an almost religious devotion. He spoke with deliberate formality, carefully coating his words with forced civility. "Allow me entrance." The words rang like chips of ice onto the floor.

Such was the fatal beauty of the wards guarding the Green Room. To enter after the room had been sealed, a person had to place both hands flat against the appropriate stone, effectively disarming themselves. If the wards determined they were, indeed, a Slytherin of the appropriate age, they still had to ask someone inside to deactivate the final ward, thus unlocking the door. Should someone other than a Slytherin attempt to gain entrance, the ward seared their hands to the stone, not with fire but with ice, a bitter cold that burned far worse than any flame.

It was, Draco thought appreciatively, a particularly nasty ward.

The door opened silently, a surprisingly modest comprisal of stone that blended seamlessly with its surroundings, unless one already knew of its existence.

Draco stalked inside.

The Sixth and Seventh Year Slytherins already assembled stared at him with grave intensity. An uncanny desperation hid in their gazes for one brief instant, the type of raw emotion Slytherins never allowed themselves to reveal, before their expressions shuttered.

Draco had clearly interrupted whatever Warrington, a burly Seventh Year physically akin to Vince and Greg who currently stood in the center of the room, had been saying. Draco could not bring himself to particularly care.

"Malfoy." Warrington greeted Draco bluntly.

"Warrington," Draco replied indifferently, more interested in examining the tension in the room, which infused the air like poison. "Have you discussed Scrimgeour's new legislation, yet?" Around the room, faces tightened in cold fury.

"Fucking Ministry bastards," Millicent Bullstrode snapped angrily. "They have to realize they just approved a witch hunt…"

Draco's expression hardened. "Of course they realize," he said silkily. "But when has the Ministry ever really approved of Slytherin House? The recent attacks were all the cause they needed."

Pansy crossed her long legs grimly, haughtily leaning on a black dragon leather couch with an indolent sense of entitlement. "We'll have to put up more protections on the dormitories." Her calmly spoken words were a warning of horrors to come; not a demand, certainly not a question.

A Seventh Year girl with heavily lidded eyes, who looked like a distant relation of Bellatrix Lestrange, nodded slowly. "We have to be careful, though. With every attack, the force acting against us will gain strength. We'll need plans in case of fights, riots, emergencies…just in case." She left the rest unspoken, but Draco could hear the unsaid words resounding through the room on trumpet blasts. Just in case the school turns against us. Just in case sanity implodes. Just in case they hunt us down like animals, just like they did all those years before.

Just in case the old hatred sparks deadly once again.

Draco walked over to the one fireplace in the Green Room, the fire flickering loudly in the grate staining his hair an eerie red, but the color was somehow still cold, lacking any illusion of warmth. He leaned against one of the granite pillars which decorated the fireplace, crossing his arms in front of his chest as he surveyed the room's occupants with cool eyes.

They looked scared, though not in the foolhardy, obvious way the other Houses showed fear, with much bravado and quickly dashed away tears. It was the type of quite terror which lurked in the back of someone's eyes for the briefest of instances, before being banished away into the black mist of obscurity. No eyes glittered with unshed tears, no one sat useless, like a broken doll, in the corner of the room, paralyzed by dread. Draco doubted if anyone from the other Houses would even be able to identify the emotion plaguing his Slytherins right now; instead, they would only see blank faces, and dismiss the entire group as unfeeling, _inhuman_, once again.

_And they looked upon us, and felt hatred, and rose up like fire to burn us to the ground. _

"And what do you believe they'll do with the Slytherins who aren't dark magic users?" Adrian Pucey asked from the very back of the room, his slim face shrouded in shadow.

Draco's mouth tightened in anger. "They'll hunt them, too. To everyone else, all Slytherins are dark, all Slytherins are evil." His voice dripped disdain. "And they're certainly not going to differentiate based on our testimony alone. If anything," Draco sneered,"they'll call you a liar and happily lock the door to your cell in Azkaban, if you try to claim innocence." Guilt was merely a matter of degrees in regards to a member of Slytherin House.

Even those who did not practice dark magic came predominantly from the old families, the purebloods who still worshipped tradition.

"We'll have to be prepared to defend all of them," Draco said grimly, and his solemn words cleaved through the room like a death stroke. "All the First Years, the younger students, they can't defend themselves to this extent, and if we are forced into another fight – "

Pansy finished for him, her face pale. "We don't have enough Healers." Even Baddock and Pritchard's relatively minor injuries had almost overwhelmed Pansy, the most skillful Healer present.

"Professor Snape is gone, as well," Warrington added gravely. A lot of faces turned ashen at the statement, though everyone's expression remained carefully devoid of emotion.

"What are you proposing, then, Malfoy?" Theodore Nott called out arrogantly from a couch across the room. "They won't let us all return home, at least, not while Dumbledore is gone. Even then, that option probably won't be open to us."

"I merely think we should examine all options," Draco said simply. Disbelieving murmurs filled the air with a furious intensity, like the static in the air before a summer storm.

"You can't possibly be suggesting –"One Seventh Year said loudly.

Draco cut him off before he had finished speaking. "I mean exactly that. Only if the situation becomes too difficult for us to viably handle."

Blaise Zabini, so far silent, nodded thoughtfully, his dark features grim. "I don't see any other option, either. Not with the younger students to care for." Zabini's calm concurrence helped lull the outpourings of disagreement. Finally, the room quieted.

"We should return to the Common Room," a Seventh Year girl with wavy brown hair and handsome features said finally. Her voice sounded strangely flat. Dead.

The Slytherins filed out of the room, their faces carefully apathetic. Looking at them, it was impossible to tell they had just discussed something of such grave importance. Draco watched them depart, grateful for the heat of the fireplace behind him. He was not often warm, lately.

Finally, only Warrington remained in the room. The Seventh Year boy, a veritable mass of muscle, stood both taller and broader than Draco.

"Malfoy." Warrington spoke with careful deliberateness. "You should know…all Seventh Year Slytherins will be seventeen by October's end." Draco struggled to rein in his shock. Seventeen. When wizards came of age. When wizards were allowed to do magic outside of Hogwarts, without the Ministry's Trace.

Seventeen. The age when Voldemort Marked his newest generation of followers.

Warrington watched Draco closely, something like sympathy flashing briefly in the Seventh Year boy's eyes, come and gone like lightning. Warrington left the room without another word, his message conveyed. Draco knew, without any doubt, that the seemingly innocuous statement had been meant as a warning of events to come. Any defenses Slytherin House erected would have to be completed by October's end.

Something big was coming.

Draco could see it looming on the horizon, an unstoppable tidal wave set to crumble the foundations of the wizarding world. He would not allow Slytherin House to drown with it.

--

Harry stood on the Quidditch Pitch, the goalposts rising like battlements behind him, as he waited with rapidly diminishing patience for the chattering horde of red and gold clad students in front of him to finally quiet. It had started raining fifteen minutes prior, the type of cold drizzle which soaked both the skin and the ground indiscriminately.

A single drop of water trailed down Harry's nose.

"All right, everyone quiet," he said loudly. The group continued chattering, and Harry felt the remaining thread of his patience fraying dangerously. "Oy, shut up!" Harry yelled, using his wand to shoot a brilliant display of red sparks into the air. The red lights danced around the falling raindrops, casting an ethereal glow upon the startled faces on the ground.

At least, Harry thought with relief, the group was finally quiet.

"Okay," Harry instructed as he strode forward, his Firebolt clutched in one hand. "I want those trying out as Chasers to go to the left, Beaters in the middle of the Pitch, Keepers off to the other side." The group diverged slowly, walking over to their respective positions. Harry caught a glimpse of Ron's red hair, vibrant as a flame against the grey rain and mist, moving towards the Keepers' section. In the same way, he spotted Ginny amongst the Chasers.

"I'm going to start with the Chasers first," Harry addressed the group as a whole, before turning back to the aforementioned group. "On my whistle, I want you all to fly twice around the Quidditch Pitch," he instructed in a slightly lowered voice. "Try and keep exactly above the outer edge." The Chasers filed away, assembling single file along the white line which signified the outer boundary of the Pitch. They mounted their brooms. Ginny smiled encouragingly at Harry, who grinned back, before he suddenly noticed…

"Wait a minute, you two. Second Years and above only." Harry grabbed the collars of two First Years' robes as they attempted to fly upwards.

"Aw, c'mon, Potter," the smaller of the two boys whined. "You got to be on the House team in _your _First Year."

"Yeah, let us have a go," complained the other boy's friend, who possessed an uncanny amount of freckles. He reminded Harry of Ron.

"No exceptions," Harry said flatly, feeling a headache bludgeoning the area behind his eyes already. God save him from obnoxious First Years. "And that's the school rules, not just mine." Harry half escorted, half dragged, the two to the edge of the Pitch, both of the younger boys complainingly loudly all the while.

Miraculously, or so it seemed to Harry's overburdened grasp on sanity, Hermione waited there with a slight frown to exercise her Prefect status. "You two know the rules perfectly well," she scolded, in the same authoritative tone she frequently utilized to get Harry and Ron to do their homework. She walked the two over to the stands, sitting them down firmly beside her, and smiled wearily at Harry, who smiled back.

"Speaking of which," Harry muttered to himself as he looked again at the two First Year boys beside Hermione. He strode back onto the field. Now that he was looking, it was clearly evident some of the students, especially the ones skulking guiltily behind a taller student, were far too short to be Second Years. "All First Years, off the field!" He roared. Harry lifted his glasses and rubbed his eyes wearily as at least five other First Years, all muttering ugly protests, trudged miserably off the field.

"Now then, Chasers…"

The tryouts for Chasers finished fairly quickly, without, Harry thanked whatever deity lurked in the heavens, further problems. He was ultimately left facing Ginny Weasley, Demelza Robins, and Dean Thomas, all of whom had demonstrated a fair amount of potential talent. Still, though, Harry wished for Katie Bell's presence, a faint pang echoing in his gut at the thought.

Harry invited the three to stay and watch the rest of tryouts, and they wandered off towards the stands, talking happily. He turned back to where the Beaters waited with little patience for him to continue tryouts. With a start of alarm, Harry noticed the diminutive Dennis Creevey standing with the Beaters, hoisting a bat at least half his height. Inwardly, Harry grimaced, even as he walked back over to the sturdy trunk which held the practice Quidditch balls. He flicked the gold latches open, the wet metal slick under his fingers. Inside the box, nestled within protective slots, the balls strained for freedom. Harry looked longingly at the Golden Snitch, which lazily curled its wings, and wished the Pitch was empty. Instead, though, Harry turned his attention back to the scarred Bludgers, which fought fiercely against their leather straps.

Harry motioned the potential Beaters up into the air, wincing as Dennis Creevey wavered unsteadily as he rose.

By now, a crowd had formed in the stands, filled predominantly with crimson and gold scarves. A few groups of Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws, far less in number, and mostly consisting of members of their respective Quidditch teams, sat nestled amongst the Gryffindors, watching the tryouts with keen eyes. Far off to the side of the other students was a rank of Slytherins, both Quidditch players and regular students alike, sitting on the metal benches with what Harry personally considered to be far too much fastidious disdain.

A gleam of white amongst the silver and green immediately advertised Malfoy's presence in the stands. Malfoy looked uncannily like a prince holding court even as he sat amongst his Housemates, everyone else's posture facing Malfoy slightly, like plants turned towards the sun. Parkinson was positioned beside him, with Crabbe and Goyle's massive bulk situated behind the two. All four appeared deeply entrenched in whatever conversation they were having, their heads tilted slightly together, lips moving furiously. Dimly, Harry realized the downpour of rain stopped abruptly over the Slytherin section of the stands, a stream of water like a curtain running down behind them. Every other student from every other House was soaked through; only the Slytherins remained infuriatingly dry.

A loud argument issuing from another section of the stands broke Harry's reverie, and he realized he had been kneeling with his hands on one of the Bludger straps for at least a few minutes, as he stared at the Slytherins. Fighting to control a blush, Harry wrestled the Bludger out of its case, and instructed the Beaters, his voice winded as the Bludger kept shoving into his stomach. "Take turns hitting the Bludgers through the goalposts. Dennis, you start first," he yelled.

Harry released the Bludger.

It flew into the air, whistling faint danger as it gathered more speed. The Bludger barreled straight towards Dennis Creevey, who paled dramatically, his suddenly white face stark against his brown hair.

"Go, Dennis!" A squeaky voice screamed from the stands. Harry did not need to turn to recognize Collin Creevey, cheering on his brother. The rest of the crowd, though, was dead silent, waiting with grim anticipation for the spectacle they instinctively knew was coming. Even the Slytherins had stopped talking to watch Dennis Creevey, although their silence contained far more glee than the rest of the crowd.

Still, the Bludger sped toward Dennis, who, instead of raising his bat, slackened his grip, a look of almost comical horror on his face that even Harry could see from his position on the ground. Quickly, Harry grabbed a Beater's bat one of First Years had dropped in a fit of pique as they had stormed of the field, and jumped on his broom. He accelerated rapidly, the rain stinging his exposed skin like angry bees.

Harry wished he had been intelligent enough to make his glasses Impervious to water, like Hermione had done in his Third Year.

Through a blur of rain and speed, Harry saw Dennis's bat fall to the ground, heard the wet _splat _as it landed on the muddy Pitch. Another Beater, who Harry thought might be a Fourth Year named Coote, flew protectively in front of Dennis, and swung his bat at the approaching Bludger. The bat connected with the Bludger, the resultant _crack_ echoing across the Pitch like thunder.

Coote turned back to Dennis, a large smile, full of obvious relief, spreading across his face. Dennis smiled wanly back, then, without warning, slipped off his broom. He fell with almost alarming speed, twirling through the air like a limp rag doll.

Harry aimed his broom for Dennis, swooping down under the falling boy's prone form, hoping against hope that he could catch Dennis without sending both of them crashing into the ground. This close, he could _hear _Dennis fall, the wind flapping the other boy's sodden robes upward with a loud crack. Dennis landed heavily in Harry's arms, the impact driving away Harry's breathe, and the pain making Harry believe the crash had broken both his arms.

Temporarily, for the briefest of seconds, Harry lost control of his broom, and they careened wildly through the air, only barely avoiding the sharp edges of the metal stands. The broom finally stabilized, and Harry brought the broom gently to the ground, struggling to hold a direction without dropping Dennis. He flew deliberately towards Madam Pomfrey, who had somehow materialized on the Pitch already, a bag of medical supplies in hand.

Harry had never been more relieved to feel his boots sink ankle deep into the mud.

"What happened, Mr. Potter?" Pomfrey asked severely as she inspected Dennis. Her wand flashed over the limp boy, performing what Harry recognized, from personal experience, as a series of diagnostic spells. A crowd, comprised of students from the stands, formed around them, necks craning to look at Dennis's still form.

Harry shook his head. "I'm not really sure…He looked fine, and the Bludger didn't hit him. I think he just fainted."

Pomfrey tutted slightly, but the anxiety in the lines around her face diminished remarkably. Abruptly, Harry realized that Pomfrey had suspected a far more serious reason to be the cause of Dennis's collapse.

Pomfrey stood, and levitated Dennis Creevey off the ground. "Right then, Mr. Creevey," she gestured towards Collin, who Harry had not even noticed standing so near, "help me bring your brother to the Hospital Wing. A little rest and he'll be fine." The crowd parted to allow the bizarre group to exit, Collin Creevey trailing despondently behind Pomfrey as she levitated his brother through the air.

The crowd turned their gazes toward Harry, who shifted uncomfortably as his hair dripped water down his glasses. "Dennis'll be fine," Harry said to no one in particular. "He fainted, that's all."

"Yeah, but what caused him to faint?" Zacharias Smith asked unexpectedly from the edge of the crowd, something ugly lurking in his voice.

"He just fainted," Harry said flatly, but crowd around him muttered furiously.

"After all," Smith continued as though Harry had not spoken, and Harry concentrated very hard on reigning in his urge to hex the obnoxious sod. "There aren't just Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws, and Gryffindors on the field today."

The crowd of students turned silently to look at the stands with all the fatal condemnation of a witness pointing at a defendant, where the Slytherins still sat, observing the crowd on the Pitch with expressionless eyes.

Hermione shoved her way past Zacharias Smith with a slight sneer, emerging to stand near Harry in the center of the crowd. "This is utterly ridiculous," she said angrily, her hair frizzed to monumental proportions because of the rain. "Dennis Creevey wasn't cursed; there was no sign of any spell before he fell. He _fainted_."

"Just because _you_ didn't see a spell, Granger, doesn't mean there wasn't one," Padma Patil said, oceans of disdain contained in her voice, and Harry remembered that Ravenclaws seemed to profoundly dislike Hermione. "Dark magic doesn't always leave a visible trace."

The angry mutterings increased in volume.

"I bet one of the Slytherins cursed Creevey," a voice containing the hint of an Italian accent shouted over the noise of the crowd.

"Probably Malfoy," another Ravenclaw said matter-of-factly, her scarf wrapped tightly around her neck. "Did you hear what that bastard did to Carmichael and the others?" The mood of the crowd darkened visibly. Almost everyone knew, through one source or another, at least the vague outline of the fight which had occurred on Saturday.

Harry looked back towards the Slytherins, and found half of them suddenly absent from the stands. Malfoy, one of the few remaining, was arguing angrily with Crabbe and Goyle. Parkinson stood slightly removed form the trio, looking severely frustrated. Somehow, Parkinson noticed Harry's gaze, and said something sharp to the three boys. Malfoy stopped speaking, and looked straight at Harry, his grey eyes inscrutable.

Malfoy turned away, and nodded something to Crabbe and Goyle. All four Slytherins vanished off the Pitch, and then no more Slytherins remained.

--

Finally, _finally_, Harry thought thankfully as he stored the trunk of Quidditch balls away in Madam Hooch's office, tryouts were over. The crowd had dispelled after thirty minutes of angry accusations, leaving almost no one on the Pitch to watch the rest of tryouts. The change from the packed, chattering stands, to an almost eerie silence, in which the pattering of the rain was the loudest sound, had been mildly disconcerting.

Coote and Peakes, two of the younger Gryffindors, had made the Beater position. Harry had especially high hopes for Coote, who had launched the Bludger away from Dennis Creevey. Ron, too, was on the team, much to Harry's vast relief. True, Ron hadn't been spectacular, but he had been a damn sight better than some of the other potential Keepers, one of whom had flew backwards and smacked into the goalposts when the Chasers had approached with the Quaffle.

After three hours, Harry was soaked through, his hair dripping rain down the back of his neck. All he was looking forward to now was a nice, warm bath to de-thaw his frozen skin and remove the mud spatters decorating his body like some sort of bizarre splatter-painting from numerous landings and takeoffs. After that, he still had to finish all his homework for tomorrow.

Sometimes, Harry really wanted a Time Turner.

Either that, or an easier life.

Harry turned out of the cluttered office, full of discarded brooms and assorted Quidditch gear, and walked back towards the castle. It was still raining, a steady deluge now, but Harry was so wet already, he figured a little more water would not make any discernable difference.

He opened the castle doors, and walked inside, leaving a puddle of muddy water on the stone floor with every step. Harry really hoped he could manage to arrive at Gryffindor Tower without running into Filch, who hated when students made a mess of any sort inside the castle.

Harry was halfway back to Gryffindor when a voice called his name out suddenly.

"We need to talk, Potter," Draco Malfoy drawled imperiously, leaning against a wall only five meters in front of Harry.

Harry continued to walk forward, pausing less than a meter away from Malfoy, who stood partially hidden in the shadow made from one of the corridor's high arches. The effect was startling; half in, half out of the light, Malfoy looked like a disturbingly beautiful cross between an angel and a demon. Except, Harry reminded himself, the angel was only an illusion, created to lure in those who resisted the demon's charms.

"Why don't you just attack me again, or throw me into a wall?" Harry asked sarcastically, pushing his wet hair out of his face.

Something wicked curled in Malfoy's slow smile. "Why Potter," Malfoy said, mock surprise infusing his voice, "I never knew you liked it when I pinned you to the wall."

Harry was far too tired to deal with this shite right now.

"What the hell do you want, Malfoy?"

With a quick flick of his wand, Malfoy cast _Muffliato_ along the corridor, before walking over to stand in front of Harry.

"Tell me; is it one of the lesser known Gryffindor traits, falling off your broom in the middle of the Quidditch Pitch?"

Harry's fury over Dennis's fall flared to life, making his eyes spark a violent green. "Did you curse him to fall, you bastard?"

A strand of Malfoy's too pale hair fell into his face, which was shadowed with anger. "It always amazes me, how you Gryffindors find it so easy to blame us for your mistakes." Malfoy tilted his head upwards to find the light, and his grey eyes filled with swirls of quicksilver. "Just another form of cowardice, from the House that is supposed to embody bravery," he sneered derisively, looking at Harry once again.

Harry struggled to keep his voice from shaking with rage. "That's not an answer, Malfoy, and you know it."

Malfoy smirked. "No, I suppose it isn't."

Harry supposed, with a surge of hot anger, that that was as much of an answer as he was ever going to receive. "I seriously doubt you tracked me down to talk about tryouts, so either ask a question, a real question, or I'm leaving now," Harry demanded.

"Who exactly did you talk to about the fight on Saturday?" Malfoy asked, and Harry thought he heard real interest tingeing the Slytherin boy's tone, before Malfoy shuttered his emotions away.

"What do you care?" Harry glared hotly at Malfoy.

"Fucking hell, Potter, it's not that difficult a question. Or have I given your intelligence more credit than it deserves?"

"You can go to hell, for all I care," Harry spat. "But I only talked to Ron and Hermione about the fight, and they were there already, so what does it matter?"

Malfoy turned away and walked down the corridor without answering, his footsteps silent on the stone. Harry was left standing in the middle of the corridor, dripping water, and feeling like Malfoy had gleaned far more from that conversation than the little Harry had said.

lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll

A/N: Ha! Another chapter done. Leave some love in the pretty green box…*please*


	12. Chapter Twelve

**BLOOD DONOR**

Summary: A vampyric Draco Malfoy attacks Harry Potter at Kings Cross before the start of Sixth Year. Now, Harry must escape a deal made with his own personal demon while he prepares to face Voldemort again…but is Draco truly an enemy? HP/DM

Warnings: Slash. Violence, angst. AU after Order of the Phoenix. Parts of this chapter are very dark.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.

Favorite Review: Zak's-blood13, who said "_I sense Draco pinning Harry to a wall and doing something other than drinking his blood,"_ which totally made me laugh. All my love to everyone else who reviewed as well!

A/N: I am so, so, so very sorry about how long it took me to get this chapter updated. I have absolutely no idea what happened…one week passed, then four…I lost all track of time. Again, sorry, and I hope this chapter makes up for it (with lots of Harry and Draco interaction time!).

llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll

Draco dipped the quill back into the inkwell, a glass crystal positioned on the far right of his desk, and regarded the contents of the letter in front of him with a careful eye. The ebony black ink still glistened wetly on the creamy smooth parchment as he read, sequestered in his room with three conjured light globes floating gently above him.

_Dear Father,_

_Forgive me for speaking bluntly. I trust you have heard mention of Scrimgeour's new edicts. Whatever eventuality should occur, there is safety arranged for the students of Slytherin House, though ensuring such protection might necessitate a mass leave of absence. All temporary, of course. _

_Inform me if you feel other arrangements are required. All my regards. _

_Your son,_

_Draco Lucius Malfoy_

Draco toyed with his quill, the black feathers momentarily lighting with an exotic blue and green sheen as it twirled slowly between his fingers. There was nothing else he could say without revealing too much, should the letter's protection spells be broken.

Finally, Draco nodded, slightly, and dipped his quill back into the inkwell. The brief letter would suffice for now, he supposed, until a less cumbersome means of communication presented itself. If Scrimgeour was going through the trouble of personally warning Hogwarts about dark magic, then rest assured, all correspondence was being searched. It was what Draco himself would do, anyway, when faced with a large population filled with potential enemies.

He spoke a word which rippled deliberately through the air, flowing like gentle waves into every crevice of the room. Impatiently, he waited for the magic to fade, understanding the necessity of caution but despising nevertheless the wait such vigilance necessitated. The fingers of his right hand drummed once, twice, upon the polished wood surface in front of him, before Draco abruptly realized the movement, and forced himself to stop.

Finally, the magic ceased its slow inspection of the room, and faded into the air with a wistful sigh, having successfully determined that nothing, physical or magical, was forcing Draco's current actions. With the disappearance of the magic, without which the room felt inexplicably empty, as though it was missing something of great importance, a ring materialized on Draco's wand hand.

He pulled the ring off, pausing only briefly, as he always did, to appreciate the beauty of the thing. It was silver, with the Malfoy crest resplendent in its center. A snake, forged of glowing silver, with emeralds for eyes, formed the band of the ring. Its mouth opened wide, displaying gleaming fangs – Draco tried very hard not to think of the irony of that – and in its mouth was embossed the Malfoy crest.

The crest was a work of beauty, refined elegance coupled with an antiquity of design which harkened back to the days when feudal lords ruled the earth, and the Malfoys were more powerful than gods…

Draco slid the ring off his finger.

Carefully, he used the point of one of the snake's fangs to prick the tip of his thumb. A single drop of blood welled up onto his skin, and Draco was abruptly mesmerized, transfixed by the crimson liquid which gleamed like a jewel in the conjured light. He could smell the sharp tang of blood in the air, a mixture of salt and iron which wracked his body with stabs of pain.

He stilled, forcing himself to concentrate on the task at hand, but still the smell lingered in the air, more painful than even the sight of the blood itself.

For Draco could shutter his eyes, but he not cease his breathing, and his lungs continued to rise and fall in the steady beat of a funeral march.

It winked coyly up at him, the blood droplet, still trembling on his thumb. Draco's only solace was that it was Sunday, once again. He only had to finish his current task before seeking out Potter.

Still, though, the thirst ate at him, and no feeble promises of forthcoming relief tempered its wrath.

And a Malfoy did not beg for mercy.

Malfoys manipulated mercy and compassion to further their own ends.

Draco pressed the ring's crest into the drop of blood on his thumb. Quickly, before the blood could dry, he carefully pressed the ring into the center of his letter, simultaneously Vanishing the contents. The black ink disappeared. Only the Malfoy crest, colored a bloody red, remained in the center of the parchment. The vermillion mark sent out crimson tendrils across the parchment, a bloody spider web which spun its influence from the Malfoy crest. Then, that too faded, and he was left once again facing a blank sheet of parchment.

The nib of the quill pressed against the parchment as Draco began to write another, far more innocuous letter.

_Dear Mother, _the heading read, and the black ink continued downward, listing with leisurely and deliberate tedium his various classes and activities, until Draco signed his name at the bottom with a flourish.

Draco surveyed the contents of his newest letter with satisfaction. The point, after all, was not to sound interesting…quite the opposite, in fact. Scrimgeour would have assigned Aurors to search the Hogwart's post by now. It was the exact tactical maneuver Draco himself would enact if faced with a large building containing an unknown number of innocents and enemies. By prattling on about the most mind-numbing topics he could think of, Draco hoped to protect his correspondence from further scrutiny. The Malfoy name alone would already ensure his letter received more than the usual amount of attention from the Aurors.

The protections on Draco's letter, though, would not be breached. The letter was spelled with a lesser form of blood magic, one tied more to family than to blood. By stamping the Malfoy crest with Malfoy blood on a letter to another Malfoy, a type of protection had been formed. The defense was fairly crude, in fact, but effective, combining blood and family thrice to create a powerful defense.

As such, only one with Malfoy blood and an exact replica of the Malfoy crest on Draco's ring could reveal the hidden letter. Not even his mother, a Malfoy by marriage but a Black by blood, would be able to remove the defenses. Draco's lips curved slowly upward. Of course, that meant the Ministry would be unable to detect, much less reveal, the message either.

With a slight smirk at the thought, he wondered what they would think, the Aurors so desperate to imprison him, when faced with what appeared an innocent letter from the Malfoy heir. That was the greatest challenge, right now, maintaining appearances. They could suspect him to hell and back, but without evidence they were better off teaching magic to muggles. Futile and extremely idiotic though the action may be.

"_Tempus_." The glowing numbers revealed the time to be eleven at night, much to Draco's intense relief. Far fewer people would be awake and roaming the dormitory now, especially with classes tomorrow.

He grabbed his coat, the thick wool one with heating charms spelled into the folds. The cloak flowed fluidly about him as he draped it on, followed by a warm scarf, moving without pause to the second wardrobe in the opposite corner of his room. He spoke the password quietly, and the doors swung open to reveal an expensive assortment of Potions supplies, Quidditch gear, and other personal effects Draco in no way wanted anyone else to have access to.

His Nimbus Two-Thousand and One rested on its custom-made shelf, its gleaming appearance the product of meticulous care. Even here, below ground in the dungeons, the connection he had with Potter informed Draco, with a subtle sensation which pricked at his skin, that the other boy was once again on top of Hogwart's roof.

The sheer inconvenience of it all made Draco want to hex Potter already, and he hadn't even _seen _the insufferable Gryffindor yet. To say nothing of the thirst burning his throat, and the back of his lungs like the most powerful of poisons…and only Potter's blood acted as the antidote.

Draco was cautious when he left his room, listening carefully for the sound of footsteps ahead or behind him. He heard nothing, though, nothing but a deadened silence, and continued forward, broomstick over his left shoulder, letter placed in the pocket of his coat.

He emerged on the frost-covered grounds fifteen minutes later, having been forced by patrolling teachers to take every shortcut and hidden corridor he knew of to avoid detection.

A sharp wind gusted over the grounds, lifting and tussling Draco's hair in a rush of cold air. He mounted his broom and flew upwards with the wind, leaving the frozen grass far below him. This high, his dark cloak blended with the nighttime sky, and his pale hair appeared to be just another silver star, shooting across the vast expanses of the night. Draco bared his teeth in a predatory grin. There was something about flying at night, something elegantly untamed about riding upon a cold wind that didn't chill so much as it stung, needles on his exposed skin. His breath, a ghost misting in the air, flew as well, whipping away behind him before he ever had the opportunity to see it.

The Owlery loomed up at him out of the darkness, a weather-battered dome, which once upon a time had been a rich stone which reflected the moon. Now, the rough surface absorbed the dark, its shape blotting out the stars instead of worshipping their light. The slits in the dome's curve, through which owls flitted in and out, reminded Draco of the defense windows in Malfoy Manor, long and narrow. Perfect for casting curses at approaching enemies in event of a siege, and he knew from his childhood explorations that they had been used, because fiery singe marks still marred portions of the stone.

Everyone who dared oppose the Malfoys met with a painful and prolonged death.

He alighted on the very top of the dome, the roof curving away into a black abyss on all sides. His robes swirled around him as he dismounted his broom. Draco knelt down, a knee resting on the battered rooftop, and touched the tip of his wand to the surface. A brief spell, and an invisible pulse throbbed once through the Owlery below his feet. A loud cacophony of disgruntled hoots pierced the air as Draco straightened and waited for his summons to be answered.

Seconds later, a familiar shape soared out of the Owlery, through the nighttime sky, winging its way in a graceful arc towards Draco's still form. He held out his left arm in a classic falconer's pose, a command explicit in the profoundly aristocratic motion. Dangerously sharp talons wrenched at his sleeve as the eagle-owl landed. If not for the protection spells imbued in every fiber, his cloak would have been ripped jagged.

"Hello, Nocens," Draco said softly. The eagle-owl's head twisted around to stare at him with yellow, unblinking eyes. Draco took his letter out of his pocket and tied it securely onto Nocens' outstretched leg. A rush of cold air breezed across Draco's face as the eagle-owl took flight, wings beating powerfully.

The metal bands constricting his lungs with their suffocating and unmerciful grasp loosened slightly; he could already breathe freer, watching as some of his burden vanished into the monochromatic palette of the night sky.

Now, though, Draco was thirstier than ever, and the painful tingling informed him that Potter was close indeed…

Very close.

"Who's that letter for?" A flat voice demanded from behind Draco, startling him.

_How the hell had Potter found him?_

"Do you have a habit of prying into other people's correspondence, Potter, or do you just have no understanding of privacy?" Draco asked, his sarcasm shattering the night's bitter cold. He turned slowly, fully conscious of the deadly drop on all sides of him. True, he still held his broom, but Draco subscribed to the mindset of not taking miserably stupid risks that had a high possibility of death, and the long drop promised pain.

Potter hovered in front of him on his broom, his breath frosting the chill air a frigid white, before it was ripped away by the wind's spectral claws.

Draco felt his thirst erupt upon seeing Potter, a Fiendfyre which burned his lungs, devouring his sanity in its desperate quest for fuel.

"Come here," Draco commanded, the vampire in full control of his larynx, sure as the fangs which suddenly pricked the top of his lower lip. Draco would have hated the sensation if he hadn't been so pleased with the results – a compliant Potter drifting towards him ever so steadily.

The sacrificial lamb about to be forfeited on the alter of Draco's thirst.

Draco couldn't wait to taste Potter's blood, flowing hot down his throat.

His whole body tensed with anticipation, every particle straining towards the dark-haired boy floating ever closer, and Draco focused all his attention on continuing the dark attraction which lured Potter.

The grindylow dragging an unsuspecting swimmer into the depths to devour him.

Suddenly, Potter's eyes, half-hidden behind the lens of his glasses, lost their blank-eyed stare. He glared at Draco, emerald eyes flashing Avada Kedavra green. Fury flitted across Potter's face, down to his clenched fists, one of which pointed a wand straight at Draco's face.

Potter laughed darkly, wildly, and the sound scraped across Draco's nerves. "I'm immune to the Imperius, why the hell do you think you can do any better?"

He was so close, Potter, less than half a meter away from Draco.

Draco was tempted to Stun Potter and be done with it.

Abruptly, Potter paled, his face draining of color. That was all the warning Draco received before Potter's eyes shuttered close, and the Gryffindor slipped off his broom, into the abyss of the night.

--

Harry was trapped again, what felt like a Full Body Bind wrapped tightly around his consciousness. He couldn't move, and he flexed his mind violently, trying to shatter his bonds.

Something pulled him through the dark of his mind, a relentless, painful tugging which transported Harry, thrashing and struggling, towards an unfamiliar consciousness he _did not want_.

Then, though, he emerged, into the same strange realm his dreams had embodied for more than a week now.

A silky voice, thrumming with power, whispered softly in his ear. The darkness wrapped around Harry, promising him his heart's desire. He stood on top the highest mountain with the devil at his side, looking out over the world, and the tempter promised him power beyond anyone's imagining. It urged him to repent, to change, to _embrace_ the darkness coiling within him, just waiting to be unleashed.

_And Harry said no_.

The dream changed, tinted a bloody red. Now, pure, unadulterated agony pulled Harry apart, ripping jagged furrows in his skin, and he couldn't pull away. He could feel the blood running in rivulets down his skin, stinging his eyes, pooling under his feet. Something grabbed his jaw, and made an incision in his right cheek, across his jawbone, then _pulled _the exposed skin, peeling away the flesh across his face.

And Harry screamed, a dreadful piercing sound.

His tormentor laughed cruelly, and promised healing if Harry only acquiesced with his wishes.

_And Harry, though he could taste the metallic tang his own blood pooling in his mouth, spat at the monster's feet and said no once again_.

Again, the dream tilted, and this time, Harry could see more than an all-encompassing blackness or the crimson color of blood. He was in a room now, his wounds still in place, removed skin flapping loosely against his cheek, exposing the white gleam of bone through the unending flow of blood. A myriad of other cuts, some shallow and stinging, others so deep Harry's mind cringed violently away from the pain they caused, covered his body in a bloody criss-cross pattern.

He blinked away the blood from his eyes, gasping in pain, and saw another body chained across from him, a little boy, young enough to be a First Year. Harry shifted slowly in his chains, still desperate to escape, but no matter how loudly the chains rattled, the boy still stared unseeing through Harry.

This time, Harry saw Voldemort stride in front of him, wand in one hand, a gore-stained knife with glittering, serrated edges in the other.

_It's only a vision, _Harry told himself. _It's not real. _

Voldemort smile at Harry, his eyes glinting red. "_You're wrong, Harry Potter. This is so much more than a dream world now." _The voice, silky-smooth darkness, resounded in his ears and in his mind, unavoidable.

"You can't do anything to me," Harry said boldly. His green eyes flashed especially bright in a face stained almost entirely with blood.

Visibly, Voldemort dropped all pretenses, holding the knife tight to Harry's throat. Harry could feel the knife's edges nicking at his throat, hooked edges which pulled tiny bits of his skin away as Harry breathed heavily. "True," Voldemort said softly. "I can't do any physical damage to you, but to him…" Voldemort pointed his wand at the small boy, who was crying softly now, tears streaming down his face. Harry's eyes opened wide.

"Don't touch him!" Harry demanded. "He hasn't done anything."

"I'm not planning to touch him," Voldemort said, and the bottom dropped from Harry's stomach at the double-edged words. "_Suctumsempra__!" _

The spell hit the boy in the left arm, slicing deep, blood spurting all over the rest of the body, until a white mass of bone was exposed. The boy screamed, a wordless cry which begged for mercy or the nothingness of death.

"Stop!" Harry cried out, wrenching against his bonds, trying wandless magic, anything, everything, to stop the torture in front of him.

"You're his only salvation now," Voldemort told Harry, a cruel smile spreading across his face. "Vow allegiance to me, and I will spare the Mudblood boy's life."

_And Harry looked into the brown eyes of the boy suffering in his staid, and said no. _

"_Avada Kedavra!" _

_--_

It was Draco's vampire-enhanced strength which spared Potter the long fall to the ground. He had seen Potter slip, and had somehow managed to grab the Gryffindor before he fell fully off his broomstick.

Draco pulled Potter to him, the other boy lolling in arms. There was barely enough room for Draco atop the Owlery roof, let alone Potter, who Draco had to clutch close to his chest in a one-armed hug to stop from falling once again.

"Potter!" Draco yelled, half his voice snatched away by the wind. Potter did not respond. Slowly, Draco shifted Potter in his grasp, until he managed to grab his broom. There was a flat roof only twenty or so meters away that Draco could set Potter onto, if only he could manage to fly the two of them there. Just as Draco prepared to mount his broom, Potter screamed, arching violently in his arms.

Nails dug into the side of Draco's face as Potter clawed at him. Draco dropped his broom, using both of his hands to pin Potter's arms to his sides. Potter was still yelling, though, an endless, ugly scream.

The dark hair lying over Potter's forehead swung aside, and revealed that Potter's scar was inflamed an awful red, almost fluorescently bright.

Finally, Potter stilled, though his eyes still did not open.

And Potter did not wake.

Suddenly, Potter was screaming again, salty tears gleaming wetly on his cheek, but this time his eyes were open, staring unseeing at Draco. Potter lashed out at Draco and almost managed to unbalance him – for a brief instant, Draco felt a heady wave of vertigo and thought for certain that both he and Potter were doomed to fall. Then, though, Draco regained his footing, and hit Potter, once, twice, hard across the face, the sound disappearing into Potter's scream.

"Potter!" Draco yelled again, and this time, _finally_, Potter stilled and looked around at his surroundings, breathing harshly in Draco's grasp.

"Let go of me, Malfoy," Potter said, his voice dangerously soft, his eyes wet and furious.

"In case you haven't noticed, Potter, that's rather impossible at the moment, unless you'd like to fall," Draco sneered, his grey eyes angling toward the drop all around them. "Especially seeing as both your broom and mine have drifted away."

They stood chest to chest, and Draco could feel Potter waver unsteadily. A brief gleam of red flashed in Potter's eyes, the only color in a face full of shadow, and Draco recoiled backwards, almost over the edge, in his shock.

Potter merely raised his hand though, scraping against Draco's side as he did so, and said "_Accio _brooms_." _

A few seconds passed, and nothing happened. Draco managed to relax slightly, partly because the red gleam had faded from Potter's eyes, come and gone in an instant.

More importantly, though, Draco had managed to reach his wand, and a curse waited on his lips if Potter attempted to attack him.

A faint whistle filled the air, and Draco saw two specks zooming towards them, outracing the wind which still buffeted dangerously against Draco and Potter on their small perch.

With a Seeker's precision, both Draco and Potter reached out their hands at the same time, both of them still holding onto the other for balance, and deftly snatched their brooms out of the air at the same instant. "Right then," Potter said, his voice rough through chapped lips, "I'm going back to Gryffindor."

Draco's thirst flared back to life at the words, and he grabbed Potter's forearm with inhuman strength, not caring when Potter cried out in pain. "You are _not," _he declared furiously, "Not until I get my blood."

Something shattered in Potter's already broken expression, something which went beyond the exhaustion and whatever the hell had just happened to Potter when he had collapsed. And Draco almost, _almost _let him leave.

Except he didn't.

He flew over to the flat rooftop he had spotted earlier, still grasping Potter's arm with a grip like iron, forcing Potter to fly close behind him. They landed on the frost-slick tiles, and without any more ceremony, Draco turned and bit into Potter's neck, relishing the taste of blood. Potter did not even try to fight him this time, just stood there, still as if Draco had Petrified him, as Draco drank down his lifeblood.

But the blood flowed rich and hot and delicious down Draco's throat, and the burning in his throat was being quenched, so Draco paid little attention as Potter began to shake, his teeth chattering audibly together. Potter's skin turned cold as Draco's warmed, and still Draco did not care, because he felt complete, with Potter's blood coursing into his mouth and down his throat.

And then Potter collapsed again.

Draco stopped almost instantly, pulling his fangs out of the two bloody holes in Potter's throat. He brushed the hair away from Potter's scar, but saw no signs of inflammation of any sort. Then, though, he focused on his other senses, realized the chill sinking through his fingers where he touched Potter's skin.

Potter's lips were blue from cold and blood loss.

"Fuck," Draco said, feeling for Potter's pulse and finding only a sluggish thing, barely beating. "Fuck!" He whispered again, reaching into his wool coat until his fingers located the smooth polished wood of his wand.

He pointed the wand at Potter with a grim smile, fully aware of how many people would love an opportunity like this; Harry Potter unconscious and defenseless before them.

"_Enervate." _

Potter's eyes fluttered open, revealing a bright emerald green, shining in the moonlight. He stood stiffly, arms wrapped tight around his body, lips almost blue with cold, teeth chattering violently. A cold wind blew around them, messing Potter's hair into even more extreme disarray. Potter stepped away from Draco without a word, reaching for his broom with purple fingertips that curled stiffly around the wood.

He looked like the walking dead.

"For fuck's sake, Potter, take my scarf before you freeze," Draco said roughly. He unwound the green and silver scarf draped around his throat, exposing the gleam of his pale throat.

He stepped closer to Harry, closing the space between them, as Potter eyed him warily, distrust obvious in his expression. Draco wound the scarf once, twice, around Potter's neck. This close, he could only feel the slightest hint of warmth emitting from Potter's skin, the cold overshadowing everything else.

"Thanks," Potter finally replied, almost no emotion in his voice. "I'm going to leave now." That last bit stung, a challenge Potter threw wearily at Draco through partially lowered eyelids.

Potter mounted his broom and flew off, the ends of Draco's scarf fluttering behind him like a ribbon. Draco watched the Gryffindor leave, a speck disappearing into the distance, and felt an inexplicable guilt curling like lead in the pit of his stomach.

lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll

A/N: Please review. It only takes a minute of your time but it means the world to me!


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**BLOOD DONOR**

Summary: A vampyric Draco Malfoy attacks Harry Potter at Kings Cross before the start of Sixth Year. Now, Harry must escape a deal made with his own personal demon while he prepares to face Voldemort again…but is Draco truly an enemy? HP/DM

Warnings: Slash. Violence, angst. AU after Order of the Phoenix.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.

Favorite Review: Much thanks goes to _Holly_, who poked and prodded me until I remembered exactly how much I adored this fic. Without her, this chapter (very) most likely would still not be posted.

A/N: Err…*_peeks out of the dark chasm that has been my dedication to this fic these past five months_* … Hi, everyone…*_ducks rotten tomatoes_*…Sorry about the delay. Circumstances conspired to kick my butt these past months, but now I've GRADUATED so I can finally WRITE again!

llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll

At five in the morning, two full hours before the Quidditch game against Ravenclaw was scheduled to start, Harry gathered his team in the common room to walk down to breakfast together.

A fire hadn't yet been lit, and the faint brushes of dawn filtering through the large windows lining the walls provided the only light in the common room. The breathtaking view visible through the window, pink and gold sunlight bathing green grass through a haze of fog and frost, went unnoticed.

Harry said good morning when the thick, sleep-stifled silence permeating the room became suffocating. No one said a word in response to Harry's greeting, just nodded as absently as red and gold-clad Muggle bobble-head dolls, brooms clutched loosely in their hands. Ginny Weasley alone looked back at Harry before she clambered through the Portrait Hole, followed closely by Dean Thomas, and smiled.

It looked more like a grimace.

Ron, standing sleep-addled in the common room next to Harry, shook his head blearily. "It's too bloody early for this shite," he said, before dropping ungracefully into the corridor. His voice echoed back into the common room, still slurred with sleep. "We had better bloody win."

Harry couldn't help but grin. It wasn't something he did a lot of lately.

--

After the vision on the roof, the dead boy had never left Harry's dreams. He was ever-present, both dead and not – Harry could no longer differentiate between the two. Regardless, the boy stared at Harry with empty, unforgiving eyes, face frozen into a rictus of pain and fear.

Harry had decided it was one of Voldemort's sick jokes, Voldemort's way of reminding Harry of his power, of his control, of the way Harry had given the boy away for dead. And Harry welcomed the image branded behind his eyes. It gave him anger – cold, steel-tempered fury, gave him reason to exist, to live, to _fight_, with everything and anything he had, until Voldemort was dead.

Until then, and probably forever after, the dead boy's eyes reflecting behind and in Harry's own were his cross to bear. His penance and his punishment, the boy's unknown name forever engraved next to Cedric Diggory and Sirius Black in the long list of deaths Harry was responsible for. His own parents included, and that long-ago unearthed realization still twisted his stomach with fresh guilt.

Harry released his hold on the battered sink in the bathroom of the Quidditch locker rooms, avoiding his own eyes in the mirror. The match was about to start, and he really needed to be outside, not staring at imaginings of dead boys.

"Oy Harry, you coming? Madam Hooch is getting everyone lined up to go onto the field." Coote, one of the Gryffindor Beaters, called nervously, sticking his head through the lavatory door.

"Yeah," Harry said, "I'll be right there." His voice sounded jagged in his own ears, but apparently Coote didn't notice anything amiss, because he just nodded, and disappeared from view.

Harry pushed back his hair wearily, casting one last glance into the mirror as he left the locker rooms.

Then again, maybe it was justice, bleak and uncomplicated, that made the dead boy haunt Harry's dreams.

Harry had killed the boy, after all.

In that regard, he was no better than Voldemort.

--

Harry emerged from the locker rooms to find his teammates huddled together under the massive stone arch that crowned the player's entrance to the Quidditch Pitch.

Dew-stained grass dampened Harry's shoes as he walked, pausing only when the cool embrace of the arch's shadow enveloped him.

"Alright guys," Harry said, taking a breath of time to exile away all thoughts of Voldemort and death to the cobwebbed depths of his mind, where they couldn't taint the better aspects of his life with melancholy and fear-filled shadows.

Just for now, Harry could have this. Just for this instant, he could pretend normal and be happy.

"We can win this," Harry continued, his voice gaining strength the longer he talked. "We've been practicing like mad, and we've improved loads since the beginning of the season."

"Hell yeah, we have," Ron said fiercely, than looked offended. "Hey, what do you mean, _loads?" _Demelza and Ginny, standing together opposite Harry, laughed at Ron's reaction, the sound rich and vibrant even over the noise of students filling the stands surrounding the Quidditch Pitch.

It was the one of the few genuine bits of laughter Harry had heard in weeks.

"Plus," Harry smiled with no little humor, "I've been watching Ravenclaw practice, and they've got nothing on us. We're going to kick their arses, easy."

Very obviously hiding their nerves behind noise, Coote and Peakes yelled their agreement, shaking their Beater's bats in the air. And then promptly colored red as the older members of the team looked at them, fighting laughter.

Harry laughed too, remembering how nervous he had been his first Quidditch game, and then Madam Hooch announced, "_I give you, the Gryffindor Quidditch team!" _her voice amplified and distorted by a Sonorus Charm.

The Gryffindor-Ravenclaw match was about to begin.

Harry led his team out through the arch and onto the field to thunderous screams, both applause-filled and jeer-laden. The weather was glorious, for once not raining but sunny, almost harshly so. Cool wind flung itself around the stadium, tangling Harry's hair into an even more disheveled mess and stinging his skin red. The Ravenclaw team already waited by Madam Hooch in the dead-center of the pitch, arrayed in Quidditch robes of royal blue and slashes of bronze.

Multicolored flags and banners hung about the stadium, declaring the inevitable Ravenclaw or Gryffindor dominance in the upcoming match. The red and gold of the Gryffindor cheering section rivaled the bronze and blue of Ravenclaw for size – Hufflepuff seeming to have split its alliances fairly evenly between the two teams.

Only the green and silver of Slytherin remained removed from the festive atmosphere of the match, physically alienated in the stands from the rest of the school by at least a dozen meters. Even their demeanors, silent and cold, distanced them from the excited atmosphere of the match, as strange as the unsettling quiet during a nighttime blizzard or the soundless approach of a Dementor's glide.

It was, Harry thought, oddly discomforting, just being _watched _like that. He could see Malfoy sitting in the middle of the Slytherin section of the stands, a king surrounded by his court.

The sight made Harry's teeth clench.

Probably it was just Harry's imagination, though, making him see a gleam of almost white hair, a flash of too-pale skin, all the Slytherins with their heads angled in Malfoy's direction, deference to the boy-king.

He shouldn't be thinking about Malfoy right now anyway. They had almost reached Madam Hooch; he should be concentrating on the game. Not Malfoy.

"I want a clean, fair match, understand?" Madam Hooch barked, her customary orders before any match. Harry nodded absently, the maybe-sight of Malfoy having undermined his concentration, until Harry suddenly stood surrounded by thick, wavy glass, the world outside seeming imprecise. Vague. Unreal. It crashed his thoughts back to Voldemort and the dead boy and screams and death and anger and violently crimson splatters of blood…everywhere blood.

"Er…we're supposed to shake hands, Potter," the Ravenclaw captain said quietly, and the present abruptly reinstated itself, slicing through the fog of Harry's nightmares like a blade. Harry suddenly noticed the outstretched hand in front of him. Noticed the way the Quidditch Pitch had fallen into a breathless, anticipatory silence.

"Right," Harry replied quickly, reaching out to clasp the other boy's hand. They shook hands firmly, and then moved apart across green grass to stand with their respective teams. Harry mounted his broom, anticipation tightening his breath, and gestured for his team to do the same.

Madam Hooch blew her whistle, one short, shrill burst, and Harry kicked off into the air, his team soaring up like phoenixes around him, fueled by the noise of the crowds.

--

Draco could not relax.

He could feel the quiet hum of the protections embedded in the stands, both physical and magical barriers guarding against accidents during the match, but Draco remained uneasy. There was far too much risk involved when all of his Slytherins were simultaneously exposed and segregated from the school like this.

Too much temptation in their current location, so easy to attack and so difficult to defend.

At the same time, though, it would have appeared even worse for Slytherin not to have made an appearance at the match at all. It would have reinforced the differences between Slytherin House and the rest of Hogwarts, cast them as aloof, alien, distant, _dangerous_ – all verdicts accompanied by the cruel crackle of a witch-hunt blaze and the smell of roasted flesh.

Therefore, Draco watched both the match and the crowds carefully, precisely. He was not here for entertainment, not in the stands to make a fool of himself, yelling, flailing and screaming himself hoarse. Slytherin House's attendance was a calculated decision, designed to promote the appearance of uniformity, nothing more.

If a lie is attractive and delicate and beautiful enough, few people hunt for the rot disguised beneath the glamour.

As a Malfoy, Draco knew more than anyone the crucial importance of appearances, and how easily they could be deceiving. Gilded deceptions prepared for those who lusted after gold.

The trick was to present the lie everyone already wanted to see.

Three minutes into the game and Gryffindor already had a 20-0 lead, something Draco had expected. Ravenclaw always played too conservatively the first minutes of a match, concentrating on maintaining strategy. On adhering strictly to their plans, on being precise and perfect, just as they had practiced.

It made them predictable.

It made them weak.

Gryffindor had smashed through their defenses, scoring twice already in quick succession. Any second though, Ravenclaw was going to start adjusting their strategy to account for Gryffindor's actual presence on the field…

"_And Ravenclaw is advancing up the Pitch, heading towards the Gryffindor goal posts. Su Li has the Quaffle, she's within scoring distance, and Ron Weasley…misses, and the score is 20-10, Gryffindor."_

The only question that remained was whether or not the Ravenclaw Seeker had the skill necessary to beat Potter to the Snitch.

Draco looked with coolly assessing eyes to the two Seekers circling around the Pitch. The Ravenclaw Seeker, a Seventh Year girl who had replaced Chang, flew close to Potter, shadowing his movements around the Pitch. Every now and again she made an abortive half loop around the field herself, jerky and awkward and unsure, but she always hastened back to tail Potter, like a pauper begging for crumbs.

She looked pathetically incompetent.

Potter, on the other hand, flew with a sharp-edged single-mindedness that contrasted drastically with the languid ease he exhibited while flying; comfortable and dangerous in the air.

Elegant and undeniably talented.

Potter didn't bother with strategy, flew too well to require it, just avoided the Bludgers and hurtled down from the skies with all the deadly accuracy of lightening striking to help his team when necessary.

Otherwise, Potter remained intensely focused, green eyes scanning over the Pitch, searching for the telltale gold gleam of the Snitch.

"What's the score?" Draco asked Pansy. She spared her attention from the Pitch to glance at him, gaze assessing in a sharply-planed face. Draco kept his expression blank and allowed the examination, grey eyes cutting back to the Quidditch game in time to watch Ravenclaw score another twenty points in quick succession.

"150 to 70 in Ravenclaw's favor, darling," Pansy responded after a beat had passed, all signs of cool calculation abandoning her face in favor of a fluttering eyelashes and a coy smile.

Draco smirked, playing Pansy's game with the aristocratic maliciousness he had learned from his father; taught to wield elitism with deadlier proficiency than his own wand. "Weasley's a fucking awful Quidditch player."

"Which one? The male or female Weasel?" Pansy asked, a wicked smile curling across her face.

"Both of them," Draco said disdainfully, a hint of seriousness creeping back into his voice. "It's disgraceful, purebloods losing to Mudblood scum." Pansy nodded her agreement and wrapped her green scarf tighter around her neck, dark eyes fixed on the match again.

A steadily building intensity engulfed the match, a furious parry and thrust of Chasers and Beaters battling over possession of the Quaffle. Ravenclaw scored thrice more to roaring applause, and Potter started banking ever closer to the Slytherin section of the stands in his increasingly anxious search for the Snitch.

Draco saw several of his First and Second Years take out their wands at the telltale signs of Potter's next approach.

"_Don't," _Draco ordered sharply, anger thrumming hot through his veins. This was the type of rank stupidity they could not afford, inanity delving below even the realm of Hufflepuff idiocy. One stray hex, _fuck, _even worse, one curse actually hitting Potter, and that was all that would be required to bring the wrath of the entirety of Hogwarts down upon Slytherin House like the glittering edge of a guillotine blade.

At Draco's command, most lowered and tucked their wands back inside their silver and green adorned robes with mute compliance.

A few did not.

"Fuckingidiots," Pansy hissed, leaning into Draco's line of vision to glare down at the younger students, her vapid act withering away like smoke in an instant. Her dark hair twisted across her face like scars, tangling in the wind.

At Draco's nod, Vince and Greg rose to their feet simultaneously on Draco's other side, staring fiercely at the few students with their wands still clutched in their hands. The remaining wands disappeared from view just as Potter flew within ten meters of the Slytherin stands.

Potter blazed by without incident, red and gold robes a blur in the air. Vince and Greg sat down again, eyes hard.

Draco let out a low breathe of relief, heartbeat still pounding in his ears. Rubbing at his temples, he leaned back in the stands. Ever-aware of the threat of the crowds, Draco kept relying on his enhanced senses, which in turn made it exponentially more difficult to ignore the thirst burning his throat.

To make matters worse, the sun seared down at Draco from a cloudless blue sky. Draco could feel the rays against his exposed skin, little barbed wires that burned as they trailed minute, almost intangible claws over his face and hands. Every other part of his skin he had carefully hidden behind his thick robes and a wool scarf, his second favorite, as Potter had his best.

More of Potter's blood would remove the pain from the sun, but the Binding Pact ensured that Draco could not just _take _without Potter's express permission.

And if last Sunday continued to occur, long and drawn out repetitions of hatred and fury, Potter's compliance would be long in coming.

"_It looks like Potter's spotted the Snitch!" _The announcer's voice reverberated around the Pitch, a thread of excitement veiled under an unconvincing façade of cool non-partisanship. Another Gryffindor commentator, because Lee had proven so adept at remaining unbiased.

Draco watched Potter dive, almost spiraling with speed, red and gold robes cracking at the air like whips. The Ravenclaw Seeker flew fast behind him, defying Draco's previous assumptions about her. Apparently the girl could fly with a modicum of talent after all.

Gasps and screams erupted from the stands as Potter, realizing the other Seeker was mere centimeters behind him, intensified the angle of his descent, until he was traveling almost vertically downwards.

The Snitch flitted quickly through the air, becoming nothing so much as a gold streak, visage blurred by speed, before it darted down to brush the ground.

Potter did the same, leaving a strip of grass flattened and ruffled pale in his wake, akin to breathing fog on a mirror. Irrefutable evidence of his presence, come and gone from the world in an instant.

The Ravenclaw Seeker flew more cautiously, almost just as fast but higher above the ground. Safety-wise, it was the more intelligent maneuver, lessened the possibility of her careening into the ground, broken bones and shattered skull, but it distanced her from the Snitch strategically.

It was all the leeway Potter required.

He reached out a hand, inching forward on his broom until he was dangerously close to upsetting his precautious balance. Sunlight gleamed sharp and bright off Potter's glasses as, with little ceremony, he grabbed the Snitch out of the air.

"_Gryffindor wins! 230 to 170 Gryffindor!"_

Cheers erupted from the crowd, boisterously loud, and Potter grinned, wide and happy as impromptu red fireworks flared in the daylight sky. The buzz of the majority of the protection spells faded with the end of the match, no more danger from rogue Bludger lurking.

Draco turned away from the Quidditch Pitch.

At last, he could leave, dispense with this pathetic charade of school harmony and remove himself from the sun's painful glare. Draco ignored the odd, unidentifiable twinge he felt, watching Potter, grinning wide and exuberant, use the hand still holding the Snitch to push a few stray strands of black hair off his forehead.

There was nothing here for Draco to celebrate.

He gestured to the Seventh Years behind him. They nodded in reply and broke off their conversation, faces grim, no words necessary. Everyone knew the evacuation plan, how to exit a crowded space as quickly and unobtrusively as possible.

The First Years proceeded out of the stands, followed closely by the Seventh Years. The highest degree of protection allotted to those with the least ability to defend themselves. Draco wasn't going to allow _anything _that even remotely resembled what happened to Baddock and Pritchard to occur again. Carmichael and those other bastards deserved to be disemboweled, agonizingly slow, for what they had done.

Within two minutes, the first group had disappeared from view, and the Second and Fifth Years began descending from the stands. None of the other Houses paid the Slytherins any attention, too busy celebrating or bemoaning Gryffindor's victory, and Draco relaxed minutely when he saw that half of his House had already safely left the Quidditch Pitch.

Therefore, the attack caught Draco unawares.

_Boom! _The stands just meters from Draco exploded with the acrid smell of burnt ozone. Glowing shards of metal, heated cherry-red from the blast, flew through the air, bits of shrapnel imbued with all the fatal capacity of a Killing curse.

Someone in the distance started screaming, a shrill, unearthly wail.

Draco's skin burned, torn apart by irregular pieces of serrated metal. Something wet trickled down from the cuts on his face, tang with the scent of rust and iron. The smell of his own blood made Draco's fangs ache.

Pansy stumbled into Draco, debris coating her hair and blood blossoming on her left arm.

Draco shoved the bloodlust to the back corner of his mind, and looked around, strands of heat-crisped hair obscuring his vision.

"Vince, Greg, start evacuating, youngest first. I don't care if they're too scared to move, Stun and Levitate them if you have to." he ordered. They left without a word, tiny cuts dotted with blood all over their faces. Draco watched them long enough to see Vince bodily lift one of the Second Year girls, her left leg blood-stained and gore-coated, over his shoulders, as Greg herded the rest of the Second Years down the stairs.

All of them were running, tripping down the stairs in their haste, faces too-pale, robes torn ragged.

None of them looked back. They were Slytherins, after all, taught self-preservation from the earliest age. And it was far easier to stay alive yourself if you were not concerned with ensuring another's safety.

Suddenly, the light around Draco became unexpectedly brighter, white-hot intense, before…_ Boom! _Fifteen feet behind him, another portion of the stands exploded. "_Protego!" _Draco yelled, heard Pansy do the same, and his Shield Charm, glowing iridescent silver, held for an instant against the lethal rain of metal before it crumpled into nothingness under the onslaught.

The newest attack ended, black smoke curling wraithlike from the wreckage of the stands.

Pansy wiped a new smear of blood away from her indigo-bruised eye, swaying slightly.

"Whoever's doing this isn't going to stop." The realization twisted Draco's panic, transformed it into anger, pure and uncomplicated, and fury crackled like lightening in his voice.

Two direct hits on the Slytherin stands and a few charred holes smoking slightly on a nearby side of the Quidditch Pitch constituted the total damage of the attack so far. Students ran screaming to the protection of Hogwarts, fear making their movements clumsy, some Ravenclaw and Gryffindor Quidditch players flying away with two or three extra people mounted on their brooms.

No one spared a glance for the Slytherin section of the stands.

Pansy grabbed Draco's sleeve. "I think it's time we left, darling." Her voice was rough with smoke, false humor tinged with hysteria.

Draco looked once more around the stands, noticed the lack of anything resembling Slytherin's green and silver amongst the students still scrambling for safety, and laughed, distinctly unamused. "What in the world makes you think I'd want to stay?"

Pansy looked at him for a moment but left without responding, stumbling across the wreckage to where a group of Third and Fourth Year Slytherins were sprinting down the stairs to the Pitch.

Draco's own progression across the ruined metal of the stands was far more graceful, an undeniably unnatural fluidity of movement that he would have never allowed himself to display in any other situation.

Far more of a vampire in the movements than a human.

Suddenly, a glare of light from the opposite section of the Quidditch Pitch blazed into abrupt life. It raged over the Pitch like a rogue star, trailing flames and blurs of heat in its wake, heading straight for Draco and Pansy as they hastened down the stairs.

"Bloody _fuck," _Pansy, in front of Draco, swore loudly, her face pale and eyes fearful. There was no one that could help them. Flitwick was on the Pitch, but all his attention was concentrated on weaving a massive Shield Charm which gleamed like dull iron over the students running on the ground.

Glowing an apocalyptic red, the fire crackled closer. Draco drew his silver knife from the sheath on his belt, not sparing a glance at the intricately worked metal handle, just closed the palm of his left hand tight around the sharpened blade and _jerked_. Pain flared up, hot and intense, making Draco wince. He didn't focus on the pain, though, just grabbed his wand in his right hand and dragged it through the blood pooling crimson in his hand.

"_Protego!" _Draco forced his blood into the spell, the magic emerging from his wand dark as nightfall and twice as forbidden. The Shield Charm expanded into a globe of ocher-streaked magic, so much different than the silver of Flitwick's spell, until it covered him and Pansy both. Magic pulsed down Draco's arm and through his wand, hypnotically attractive in its sheer magnitude, the dangerous beauty in a cobra's sway.

The globe of fire impacted directly with Draco's shield, berserker strong, making Draco shudder with pain as he fought to keep the shield from breaking under the initial onslaught. He succeeded, but barely, sweat running down his face in blood-colored rivulets as black spots danced across his eyes and his heartbeat roared in his ears.

The world shrunk to the power blazing through Draco's skin, and he could feel himself tiring, but the hum of magic whispered dark and intoxicating promises of kingship in his ear, influence of the highest degree. His blood and life, or even better yet, someone _else's _blood – Pansy staring breathlessly up at him with her face orange in the firelight and her shoulder already dripping red - in exchange for power that could make the earth shake and gods tremble.

It would be easy. So easy, to reach out and take and destroy and make bleed that it made Draco's breath catch in anticipation…

Except he had experienced it before, the fatal lure of dark magic, and Draco concentrated instead on the energy flowing out of his body with his blood, and the dangerous fatigue settling in like a suffocating fog in its absence as the heat from the fire blistered his skin.

Finally, it ended, the inferno extinguishing mere feet above his head, and Draco let the Shield Charm collapse.

Exhaustion and blood-loss dulling his movements, Draco walked slowly down the twisted ruin of the stairs, Pansy wordlessly offering her arm with a regal flourish as support.

They did not stop moving until they had reached the Slytherin dormitory.

--

Blood was smeared all over the common room. It was the first thing Draco noticed when he entered, the smell slashing at his fraying self-control with Hippogriff claws. It was deathly silent, hordes of students and no one speaking, only sharp hisses of pain breaking the quiet.

Pansy wasn't going to be able to heal everyone, Draco could tell already. The common room was a maelstrom of injuries, jagged wounds dripping red and flesh seared charcoal black. The rust and copper tang of blood hung heavy in the air, an ugly, _appetizing_ smell weighted further by the sickening reek of cooked meat.

"I'm healing myself first," Pansy declared, surveying the common room with tired eyes bruised purple and expression unwavering as iron.

"Good," Draco said curtly, seeking out the worst injured in the room and spotting them quickly: a Fourth Year girl named Astoria Greengrass, with streaks of red crusted throughout her blonde hair and metal shards glinting in her cheek, an even younger boy cradling his broken arm to his chest, flesh seared black, and twelve others besides.

Astoria Greengrass cried out, wordless and awful, her round face crumpled with pain and wet with tears.

A large gash crossed her forehead and continued through her hairline. New blood, fresh and bright as dawn, oozed through blackened flakes of charred skin and continued trailing rivulets like crimson raindrops down her face. As Draco walked closer, the pungent odor of blood became more intense, copper and salt and death and life and _food_… Draco stopped mere paces from Astoria, fangs cutting into the inside of his mouth, the silver star on his arm burning hot in warning. "Slytherins don't cry," Draco snapped, relieved when Astoria flinched and nodded, fiercely blinking the tears from her eyes.

Out of the corner of his eye, Draco saw Vince and Greg descend the stairs to the common room from one of the passageways leading to the dormitories, footsteps heavy and posture composed of carefully contrived normality. They skirted around the edges of the room and paused behind Draco.

Dried blood was crusted black over both Vince and Greg's clothes, but Draco could tell by the smell, metallic scent of copper, that only trace amounts belonged to them personally. Bloodlust pounding in his head, Draco heard Vince speak through a fog, and anchored his sanity in the searing pain in his wrist and the dull throb of cut in his left palm.

"Everyone else's in the Green Room," Vince said in a low voice. "Warrington unlocked the wards and took all the least hurt kids down there."

"Warrington finally decided to use his brain for something other than Quidditch?" Draco sneered with mock surprise, grateful for the distraction. He glanced around the room, his gaze alighting on a small bowl glinting dull silver in the shadowed recesses of one of the bookshelves.

Perfect.

"_Accio," _Well-aimed spell, bowl flying to his hands. "We'll have to use an Augmentation Charm," Draco said absently, the elegantly filigreed edges of the bowl weighing uncomfortably on the cut on his hand.

"You expect us to do _what_?" Pansy asked acidly from behind him, bloodied skin glaringly absent of a injury.

Draco curled his lip in disdain. "You have far too much confidence in your ability as a Healer, Pansy _darling. _Fourteen serious injuries to my count, and you're not considering other options?_"_

Pansy lowered her voice, her tone harsh, privacy making her words less aristocratic, more pointed. "That spell _kills _people when it's cast improperly."

"And if they aren't Healed soon, they're going to die anyway," Draco snapped. "All dark magic has high risks, you know that. Hypocrisy is _so_ appallingly Gryffindor."

"_Muffliato," _Pansy hissed, waving her wand in a circle around them, the spell's circle cutting off Greg just as he opened his mouth to speak. Draco arched one eyebrow aristocratically at her.

"If we do this, you're staying outside the boundary. No negotiations, no pretty little words from you to convince me otherwise." Pansy's voice was flat, arms crossed over her chest. Uncompromising.

Draco stepped fluidly closer to her, smirking when Pansy flinched back. "Is this because of the blood, darling?" He whispered soft and quiet and threatening in her ear. "Because I have _far_ more control than you credit me with."

Pansy rolled up the smoke-stained sleeve of her white dress shirt in silent reply, tilting her wrist towards the light emitting from the iridescent globes floating in the corners of the common room. Bluish-purple veins ran barely visible under her pale skin, and Draco could see them pulse slightly as Pansy's heartbeat filled his ears. Suddenly, Pansy had a silver knife in her hand and the blade rested on her forearm, pushing it down until her skin creased but didn't break.

Pansy drew the blade along her arm, blood welling up in the cut like flowers after a rain, eerily gorgeous and so _very _tempting… "You're a fucking _vampire, _Draco, andwhatever Pact you made obviously is preventing you from getting enough blood. The spell you cast today just made it worse," Pansy's sharp voice cut like razors through the bloodlust. "I can't trus…I can't take the risk," She continued, her tone softer, looking delicate and vulnerable, like a too strong wind could break her, brittle as ice and twice as fragile.

Draco stepped backward expressionlessly, knowing Pansy would recognize the movement for the consent it was.

Sure enough, Pansy's twitched up with tired victory, and she ended the _Muffliato _spell a moment later.

Draco moved to the opposite end of the room, and leaned against a dark couch shot through with shimmering threads of green silk, watching Pansy with strands of charred hair falling across his eyes.

"Draco –" Greg said in a low voice, following him over to the wall.

"Cast a circle for Pansy," Draco said curtly. Greg's brow wrinkled but he nodded, no questions asked. Draco's appreciation of Vince and Greg's quiet brand of loyalty elevated.

Greg turned his wand in the air, lazy circles accompanied by a grunted incantation, and a thick white band materialized in the air, before settling like it had been painted on the floor. It was perfectly done, no breaks or wavering edges, Draco outside, Pansy and the injured Slytherins sequestered inside.

Pansy's eyes were slightly too wide, her knuckles clenched white, right hand gripping her knife, fighter's stance, the left the silver bowl. A display of nerves only a Slytherin would notice.

"Listen to me. Three drops for the most injured," Draco instructed evenly, walking to the very edge of the circle and feeling the faint crackle of magic like lightening dancing across his skin. "Two drops for the second worst, one for the least, as your parameters. Make _certain_ to specify that when you cast."

Pansy nodded, her wild-eyed expression settling into something more resigned. She began stalking around the circle, making small, almost surgical incisions on each person's forearm, her eyes tight, offering no reassurances in the wake of the cries that followed every knife slice and the careful flick of blood drops into the bowl. Each drop was accompanied by the shadow of a face rising like smoke from the surface of the blood and low, disembodied whispers.

For all its allure, blood magic was inherently dangerous. The magic was almost sentient, which made it dangerous beyond all reason, because if given even the slightest opportunity, it would kill anyone who gave blood to the spell.

Almost a Slytherin mentality, in a sense.

Draco stayed silent now, not daring to interrupt magic this powerful, this _dark_, once it had begun, a move as deliberately suicidal as stepping in front of the Killing Curse. He wanted to cast the spell but recognized the soundness of Pansy's logic as the smell of blood filled the air like perfume, addicting as any drug, and he could barely breathe for want.

He did not even notice himself moving forward, smooth spectral glide, until arms wrapped themselves in a vise around his shoulders and Vince's voice hissed in his ear, "What the hell are you doing, Draco?"

Draco stiffened abruptly. For one brief, infinitesimal second it was good that Draco was so far weakened, otherwise he would have spun, attacked, ripped and tore…

"Let go of me, Vince," Draco demanded, all aristocratic disdain while his fangs stabbed at the inside of his mouth.

Inside the circle, Pansy dipped the end of her wand in the blood, dark wine in a silver chalice. She started casting, blue magic gleaming in her eyes and broken strains of an unknown melody haunting the air.

Greg suddenly stood at Draco's other side, his eyes fixed on the spell undulating through the air with slow seduction, beautiful and deadly as a siren's call. "Is it the spell?" Greg sounded like he was speaking from far away. "You can't break the line, no matter what, no matter what it sounds like."

"It was the spell," Draco lied easily, excuse ready-made and wrapped with a bow. He stood quiet then, veins in his neck taunt as the smell of blood washed over him like the ocean, pulling and tugging at him with all the ancient strength of the tides. As he watched, blood-soaked bones disappeared under burned flaps of skin and healed with sickening cracks. Astoria Greengrass arched off the couch, screaming and clutching at her temples as a jagged fragment of metal pushed itself out of her skull.

Ten minutes later, Pansy finally stopped, exhaustion and overexertion tingeing her skin green. Her arms trembled as she lifted her hand to wipe at the sweat beaded like pearls at her hairline. The musty smell of exhaustion hung rank in the air around her.

Draco left the common room as she crumpled to the ground, desperate for air that didn't reek of blood.

--

Harry flew directly back to the Gryffindor Tower, Romilda Vane clutching at his waist and sobbing in his ear. He could still hear the explosions on the Quidditch Pitch behind him, the screams of twisted metal piercing through the air like a battle cry as another curse hit the stands.

Harry wanted to turn around, to go back and fight, the thought of slinking away from a battle like a coward making him furious.

But Romilda was with him and she was young, and while Harry had no compunctions about putting his own life in danger he wasn't going to risk someone else's.

_Ahh, _a dark voice whispered insidiously in Harry's head, _but she is so much older than you were when you fought Voldemort for the Sorcerer's Stone, same age as when you stood trembling in a graveyard, certain you were about to die…_

_A different type of young, _Harry thought back furiously. _And I'm not destroying that. _

The voice chuckled in reply, dark and unpleasant, before its presence faded from the back of Harry's mind.

"…and we all could have been _killed_, I was so _scared _Harry…" Romilda babbled, her voice shaky, as Harry reached the shimmering sun-lit windows of the boy's dormitory.

The sun reflecting bright and pure off the glass nearly blinded him, but as he flew into the blue-grey shadows created by the window arch the details resolved themselves abruptly; bubbles suspended imperfectly in glass like it was water instead of super-heated sand, the crucial centimeter thick opening Harry had left the window open the last time he had launched himself out of the window at midnight, desperate to escape dreams of Voldemort and death.

Harry reached out a hand slowly, his movements restrained by Romilda's tight grip around his waist, and pulled the window all the way open. He flew inside the dormitory and down the staircase to the common room without a word, suddenly desperate to see how many Gryffindors had made it back to the common room.

The common room was packed, people milling around and crying, desperate to locate their friends. It was such a change from the peace of the morning, night and day, that Harry stopped moving, hovering on his broom at the bottom of the stairs.

"Oh Harry!" A girl's voice cried in Harry's ear, arms jerking him off his Firebolt and into a fierce hug, his face suddenly encountering a mass of bushy brown hair. Hermione abruptly pushed Harry away, holding him at arm's length, her eyes slightly shiny.

"We were so worried, I thought you had gotten involved in the fight –"

Harry shook his head. "Vane couldn't walk on her own, needed me to fly her back. Do you know if anyone got hurt?" He asked quickly as a loud sob sounded from the corner of the room. She shook her head, her expression serious.

"I've counted three times so far," at Harry's confused look, she amended, "Gryffindor has one hundred and nineteen students, and I've done a head count three times, and you and Vane were the only ones still missing."

"But was anyone _hurt_?" Harry repeated, the muffled crying in the common room almost obscuring his voice.

Hermione shook her head. "I think they're just scared," she said quietly. "They all think it was Vol…" she faltered before her voice steadied. "They think this was an attack orchestrated by Voldemort."

A sudden flare of perception, noticeable as an ember glowing red in a shower of ash, caused Harry to start. He grabbed Hermione's arm. "Hermione, where's Ron?"

She looked nervously down at Harry's hand, then back up to his face. "What's wrong?" she asked. Harry didn't answer, and started pushing through the common room, looking for a distinctive flash of red hair. "Harry, what's wrong?"

Harry kept moving, ignoring the frightened stares he was receiving as he searched. Someone abruptly grabbed his arm, and he twisted to yank it free, turning as he did so. "You need to calm down, mate," Ron said quietly, his blue eyes serious, and didn't release Harry's arm from his bruising grip. "You're scaring the First Years." Ron's tone was light, but his expression was entirely serious.

Frightened, shocked looks on tear-stained faces all around him, and Harry nodded. "I need to talk to you and Hermione." Harry reached up unconsciously, scraping his hair away from his forehead. Hermione finally caught up with them, opened her mouth, expression a mixture of worried and indignant, and then stopped, staring up at Harry's scar in shock.

"And it doesn't hurt?" She asked, her voice almost inaudible.

Harry shook his head. "It doesn't hurt _at all._"

Comprehension dawned across Ron's face. "Bloody hell," Ron breathed, his freckles stark against his pale face.

Harry nodded grimly. "I know."

--

Draco walked until he found one of Hogwart's many unused corridors. It was lined with windows, tall Gothic arches that gleamed like diamonds as the sun fell in bright swaths of light to the floor. He sat, trying to pull the shreds of his composure about him like a cloak, in one of the hollows where the sunlight did not intrude, legs stretched out in front of him into the corridor.

He closed his eyes, grateful for the quiet and the musty smell of disuse that permeated the corridor. "_Episkey," _Draco waved his wand over his left hand, wincing as his skin pulled tight and knitted together slowly, very slowly.

Shite.

All his energy had been drained by the Shield Charm he had used on the Pitch, and now he could barely muster the magic necessary to perform a simple healing charm. "_Finite Incantatem." _Draco stopped the spell before it finished, and settled for wrapping a scrap of cloth around his still throbbing palm.

"Malfoy!" An unpleasantly familiar voice rang out, and Draco's fangs sharpened in painful recognition.

Draco turned to face the corridor with grim resignation. "What the fuck are you doing here Potter?" Draco asked, voice dripping with scorn and barely disguised exhaustion.

"I needed to talk to you about the attack," Potter said steadily, looming over Draco as he shoved a scrap of ragged parchment into the back pocket of his pants.

Draco stood up, a quick, angry movement, suddenly furious. "I don't fucking want whatever help your ego feels it has to offer to confirm what a good little hero you are today."

Potter flinched, a movement so small and carefully veiled it was barely perceptible, and balled his hands into fists. Draco prowled closer in triumph, until he was so close he could see the specks of gold in Potter's eyes. "If you really want to help, though," the vampire in Draco continued, voice low and seductive and grey eyes hypnotic, "You'll give me some of your blood."

Potter swayed forward, expression glazed, and Draco felt a glimmer of victory dawn, but then Potter started backwards, his eyes blazing like green fire behind his glasses.

"What reason have you _ever_ given me to help you?" Potter spat with fury rippling through his words, and Draco could use that, twist Potter's rage to suit his own ends.

Draco laughed, cold and humorlessly as he sprawled back against the wall. "You're not exactly the hero your fan club has deluded themselves into thinking you are either, Potter."

"Last time I saw you, you drained me so much I almost fucking _froze_ to death flying back to Gryffindor."

Draco's anger flared red. "You're not giving me any particular inclination to do anything different this coming Sunday, Potter."

Potter laughed contemptuously. "I wouldn't expect anything different from you, Malfoy."

"I couldn't care less about your opinion of me as long as I get my blood," Draco hissed, fangs pricking at the inside of his mouth.

The corners of Potter's mouth twitched up with little humor. "I couldn't really give a fuck what you think about me, Malfoy." Potter pushed his hair away from his forehead to reveal a brief glimpse of his scar, carved white across his skin. The last time Draco had seen Potter's scar, on a high roof at night with the moon cold behind him, it had been an angry red, like the type of brand left by iron heated cherry-red.

"I wanted to tell you…" Potter continued slowly. "It wasn't Voldemort behind the attack. I would've…I would've known. Today didn't have anything to do with Voldemort."

And Draco remembered a flash of crimson eyes and ebony-slit pupils in Potter's pale face, framed against an environment as foreign and cold as any dangerous enemy, and wondered exactly how strong Potter's connection to Voldemort actually was, what it boded for the battle about to commence.

Then, Draco laughed coldly. "Of course it wasn't. The only stands actually hit were the sections with Slytherins in them. The Dark Lord wouldn't attack his own supporters."

Potter shoved Draco hard up against the window, the glass groaning alarmingly as a hundred meter drop loomed below him. "Finally realize how gorgeous I am, Potter?" Draco leered through lowered eyelashes, staying deliberately lax in Potter's grip as Potter's hands flexed reflexively into his skin, like they were trying to ball into fists.

"Damn it, Malfoy," Potter hissed through clenched teeth, green eyes glinting furiously. "This isn't funny. I'm trying to tell you that your House is in danger."

"Why even bother, Potter?" Draco sneered. "I'm a Slytherin and you hate me. Why do you _care?"_

Potter shook his head, strands of black hair falling across his face as his hands fell away from Draco's side. "I don't know," he said expressionlessly, and left, footsteps echoing around the empty corridor.

Draco stayed where he was for a long time after, the glass cold behind him, and thought about what Potter had said.

--

A/N: There's only scattered WIFI in my dorm room, so I'll answer your lovely reviews as soon as possible. Thank you so much in advance for the reviews, and for sticking with me these past seven chapter-less months. You guys rock!!!

On an unrelated note, this is longest chapter to date, 20 pages long and 7,500-ish words. If it gets to be too long (about a month or so) without another update, feel free to PM me and ask what the hell the holdup is. The next chapter'll probably be posted sooner if you do!


	14. Author's Note

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

**Hey guys! I just wanted to let you all know that I'm going to be putting this fic on hiatus for a while. **

**I'm just not really happy with the characters or the plot anymore, and I'm feeling more and more that I'm allowing the story to be bogged down in insignificant details. It's already been almost a year since my last update, and I need to man (or woman, more accurately) up, face facts, and re-edit until I'm happy enough to continue. (Admittedly, I have perfectionist tendencies that tend to emerge at the most inconvenient times, but I don't think that's what this is). So, just a general FYI: I'm going to be doing some re-editing – while the basic plot and character details aren't going to change, I'm going to be spending some major time refining descriptions and plot flow. Hopefully, I'll fall back into love with Harry and Draco while I'm working, and be able to continue it again. **

**All my love to everyone who has read and reviewed – you're all brilliant and awesome and utterly made of win, and it's made me ridiculously happy to read your comments. 3**

**~ Avnaihi**


End file.
